Origin: Hawkeye
by scarletdestiny
Summary: Ever since the Battle of New York, the Avenger's resident marksman has become more distant than normal. Intent on saving their archer from the darkness in his mind, the Avengers stumble onto deeper secrets than they anticipated. After all, why would you expect the past of an assassin to not be filled with horror? Trigger warnings will be listed at the beginning of chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**_Location: Somewhere in the Alaskan wilderness_**

Bitter wind whipped harshly against the restricting wool coat of a lone sniper perched carefully in an old pine tree derived of most of its needles from the insistent wind over its many years. Doing his best to ignore the harsh cold, the sniper huddled closer to the inner warmth of the coat while keeping his eyes peeled for any sort of movement below. A pack of wolves roamed beneath his tree on the scent of prey brought to them by the ever-present wind. The sun dipped below the horizon though it had only been up in its place for a few short hours. Blinking against the sudden glare brought from the sun bouncing off of the snow clothing all of nature, the sniper adjusted his scope accordingly with his changing scenery.

The lone building cutting off the wildness of the landscape sat a few hundred feet from the sniper's tree. Its grey siding did nothing but help it blend into the background. It was not a large compound: four buildings spaced evenly inside a twenty-five foot wall with a barbed-wire, electric fence surrounding the top, and alert armed guards every twenty feet for security purposes. Turrets stood ready with eager gunmen at their helms, just waiting for the sniper to make any movement to give his position away. Normally a place so heavily guarded would be home to a nuclear or biochemical weapon of some sort; ever since aliens had landed, however, that upped the stakes on what could be lurking in the depths of the compound. Partially dissected corpses, alien weapons as old as the earth hanging mockingly on the cold dungeon-like walls, gruesome experiments being performed on humans nailed down to a wooden slab, all these thoughts rushed through the sniper's mind causing him to shiver. If it had not been for his training and quick reflexes, the rifle would have dropped from his hands onto a head of a still lurking wolf.

Sighing, the sniper moved slightly in the tree once more as a branch had begun digging into his back. At least he wasn't being paid to infiltrate the place, all he had to do was keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Although, if you asked him, the entire compound was suspicious and should be blown off the face of the earth immediately. He would have called in and asked his commanding officers why they didn't just drop a nuke on the place but he was just a soldier, it wasn't his place to question orders, not that he hadn't tried before. The sniper considered himself a reasonable man and it didn't quite stand to reason that you should blow up an entire military facility based on a nervous feeling, but the Battle of New York had changed everything. Better just get the alien stuff out of the way and return to normal.

The Battle had been one hectic event after another with barely any time to think. Did you focus on killing the creepy giant whales with motorcycle-riding cyborg henchmen, or did you save the civilians? It was impossible to do both unless you were some sort of superhero, which the sniper knew he wasn't. And what was with all of the aliens just fizzing out and dying as soon as a nuclear bomb blew up in the universe? The fighting ought to have lasted for a few more days, not end suddenly while your heart was still pumping adrenaline, that was just taking kills right out of people's hardworking hands.

An unlucky raven landed on the electric fence, letting out an ear-piercing screech as volts of electricity rushed through its small body in an instant, frying the creature. Dropping with a dulled thud onto the ground below, the wolf pack quickly ran to the carcass, though it would not be enough to feed one of them. Watching the feeding frenzy below him in earnest as it was the only interesting thing to happen all day, the sniper remained forever clueless to the black arrow that punched right through the Kevlar jacket and plunged directly into his heart.

Soon, the wolves would be well-fed after all.

Perched high up in the eaves of the only tower of the compound, a lone agent quietly surveyed the still landscape. Men were moving slowly through their routines that never varied day-to-day though none of them ever seemed to mind. The ten guards posted along each wall of the compound stood lazily about, practically leaning on their rifles as they chatted idly with one another to pass the time until their shift ended. Shifting his gaze to the turrets along the front wall, the agent was again displeased to see the lax position of the gunmen who would never be ready to fire their weapons if the enemy were to appear suddenly. Holding in a deep sigh of frustration at the uselessness of the men he had been stuck with, the agent filed away a memo in his mind to once again discuss the irresponsibility of the soldiers with the commanding officer, though he expected it to end in a shouting match like last time. Weren't training facilities supposed to be training people?

Moving his eyes and his mind outward to the landscape of the Alaskan wilderness, nothing notable caught his eye. Nothing, that is, except for the one sniper trying his best to remain hidden: the agent had seen him days ago, however, and had yet to make a move as planning ways to catch the man off-guard had been the only thing to occupy his time this past week. The sniper obviously had some sort of training, though from the state of his "hiding" place, the agent guessed the man hadn't been trained in the military and was most likely just a hired gun who assumed he was good enough to hide in a tree for a few days and make a decent amount of money spying on a military base. The sniper's plan had been flawed from the moment he began climbing his current tree five days ago. Firstly, he never moved his position. Secondly, he was, from the agent's viewpoint, in direct view of the sun making it difficult for him to hit anything properly, and yet it made it all that easier to shoot him since the sun glistened off of his rifle's barrel. Finally, the idiot man continued fidgeting, shaking the tree whenever he became the least bit uncomfortable. To be fair, the poor man probably had not expected there to be a SHIELD agent watching his every move, just waiting for his day to become boring enough to warrant finally shooting the terrible spy.

A single raven decided to end its life by landing unknowingly upon the only working section of a ten-year old electric fence. Somehow, to the agent's slight amusement, the fence managed to produce enough shock to simply stun the bird into letting out a small shriek of surprise before fluttering down to the ground below, deciding that the wolves were a safer bet than a shocking fence. Obliviously, the guards continued staring out at the same patch of snow twenty-five feet below them, never knowing the plight of the raven.

"Barton," the gruff voice of a stern and weary commander drifted through on the agent's earpiece, "guess your service is up. A message came through for you to 'return to HQ', wherever that is." Annoyed that the mystery man who showed up only two months ago got to leave before him, the commander shut off the communications before the agent could even respond. Sighing in resignation at what waited back at base, the agent stowed his rifle back into its case. Standing swiftly, he pulled a bow out of its holster on his back, nocked an arrow, and sighted down at the sniper staring off at the wolves eating one raven.

There was no telling how long it would have taken the guards on the wall to notice the sniper in the trees if the sniper hadn't tumbled from his position with a single black arrow sticking out of him. The dark red of the blood contrasted nicely with the dull landscape.


	2. Chapter 2

_Location: Classified SHIELD facility_

Ever since the battle of New York, SHIELD agents had been in an uproar at the public population's realization of extraterrestrial beings existing in more than just sci-fi television shows. A few in SHIELD believed they were no longer needed as the general population now understood the risks posed to their way of life by the evil out in the universe. As such, SHIELD was now being forced to release agents daily due to their loyalty being compromised. Yet leaving SHIELD in search of new career opportunities was still a far better path as opposed to betraying your entire team and murdering dozens of your fellow agents all the while blowing up the agency's only helicarrier.

Being the most hated agent was a new feeling for Clint Barton even though he had never been extremely popular with many other agents as he tended to keep to himself and opted either for solo missions or went as part as Strike Team Delta. Still, having every other agent in every single SHIELD base across the nation and those in foreign countries hate your guts and wish you an extraordinarily painful death was not a pleasant circumstance. Right after New York, agents had settled for death glares and angry whispered comments. However, many had found that he would ignore their silent efforts at tearing him down so they began to construct more colorful comments about him, and the comments began to get much louder whenever he passed. No senior agents dared to vouch for him: After all, Barton had basically gotten Agent Coulson murdered by a crazy alien god.

The gray interior of Barton's temporary quarters at base was about as comfortable as being around agents with murder on their minds. In fact, Barton had become confident that many of the agents would have attempted to kill him by now if it was not for the fact that Fury would be seriously pissed off at losing his best sniper. Again. Since arriving back at base four days ago, Barton had barely left his assigned dorm except for a nightly walk to the mess hall at three in the morning when absolutely no one else was around. Of course, going so early in the morning ensured that the food was of the lowest quality and barely counted as true food but it was edible and he had survived on worse-tasting things before so he figured the stale bread and day-old cooked sausage was worth not having agents confront him every two seconds.

Having nothing better to do other than sleep or get lost in memories best remained buried in his subconscious, Barton settled for sitting tensely on the edge of his lumpy bed, doing his best to avoid the torn areas of the mattress where springs punctured through the thin material. There was nothing to do but stare at the plain gray walls surrounding his small bunker. The tiny attached bathroom held only the bare necessities needed for keeping oneself in a basic state of cleanliness. Other than the decades-old bed that looked like it belonged more in a trash heap than a military base, the only other piece of furniture was a dark wooden stained dresser missing chunks of wood from the corners and one of the legs was snapped off, causing the entire structure to lean backwards against the wall. In other words, just because Director Fury did not want Barton killed did not mean he thought he deserved any sort of comfort. What kind of comfort were the agents Barton had killed getting in the afterlife?

Barton began listing his options: Library, training grounds, shooting range, mess hall, wallowing in his room in silent hatred of Norse gods that were supposed to be mythological yet still manage to screw with people's lives.

The library was a no go as the library was clear on the other side of the base and he would either need a to swipe a pass card from a higher level agent or he would be forced to break into the library and steal the books, which was frowned upon as the library was host to classified documents. Although he had contemplated breaking in any way since he was already in a crapload of trouble. The training grounds were also out of the question since showing his face there would be just asking for someone to pummel him. Shooting range was out of bounds too. Though his fingers itched to feel the string beneath his nerves again and to be able to shoot dummies in order to get out aggression. Again, shooting was not an option as he was temporarily no longer permitted to carry or to even hold a gun, much less his bow and arrow. As soon as he had come back to base four days prior, all of his weapons had been confiscated, his SHIELD badge had been taken, and the agents ordered to escort him to his room did so only because they were able to constantly verbally rip him to pieces.

Surely Director Fury would order him to his office soon. However, Barton was betting more that Fury was letting him stew in his own thoughts until he went crazy enough that he actually barged into Fury's office unannounced and got the crap beat out of him by Fury's elite guard. Not that he wouldn't take a few of them out before he was knocked out cold and dragged into an even more secure cell to await his impending execution. Surely the entire SHIELD base would be thrilled to hear that the rouge agent had finally received his due for betraying everyone that he had sworn to protect.

Frustration bubbled up in Barton's chest, threatening to explode if he didn't move soon. He needed to be doing something, not holed up in a SHIELD dorm waiting to be lectured. Hell, Fury hadn't waited this long when Barton had refused to take down Black Widow but had brought her back to SHIELD, effectively releasing tons of secrets to a Russian spy in the process. Of course, that situation had ended up working out in the end. Fury hadn't been at all pleased that one of his newer agents was recruiting spies instead of doing his job. Coulson had covered for him though, claiming that Black Widow could prove to be a valuable asset if her loyalty could be switched over to SHIELD.

But Coulson couldn't cover for him this time.

Glancing wearily at the thin, black alarm clock sitting haphazardly on the leaning dresser, he stared, annoyed, at the time: 5:38AM. It wasn't even time for the general population of the SHIELD base to be awake and moving, yet he knew that the mess hall would still be crawling with alert agents grapping some food before heading out on a morning mission. Man, he missed leaving early in the morning knowing the entire day would be action packed and excited, rather than wasted rotting away in a cell.

He knew for a fact that there were agents assigned to watch his every move in case he did decide to leave his prison room. Whether they were watching him under Fury's orders or because they held him responsible for all of the agents who had lost their lives when a major portion of the helicarrier exploded, well that was anyone's guess. If there was one thing those damn agents were good at, it was making sure his door carefully guarded, constantly. Which only left one way out: the air vents. Those idiots never thought to guard the ventilation system, not that there were enough agents to watch all of the exits even if one of them happened to conceive the notion that the man they were trying to keep prisoner was a world-renowned assassin: this cage would never hold him.

Standing, he paced to the center of the room to get a better view of his escape route. Though he had used the vents in this room numerous times already, it was always best to be prepared for any sudden changes: the number one rule of survival was to always be aware of your surroundings as they often determined life or death. The air vent was positioned in the far right corner of the room, directly across from the door to the bathroom. The rickety dresser was the desired height but it would never be able to stand up under the weight of a fully grown man, even if that man knew where to position his weight in order to best stay upright. Since the only other piece of furniture available was the bed, he would have to put his faith in the dented bed springs to not collapse while he climbed.

Hoisting himself into the air vent was the easy part, the challenge came from having to reach back down into the room below and replace the hanging screen to the entrance to the vent. There was nothing he could do about the position of the bed now that he had shoved it against the wall to climb, he would just have to count on any curious agents believing that the bed belonged against the wall even though it was clearly pulled out from the wall in every other room.

Agent Barton moved slowly through the first stretch of vents in order not to alert those below to his presence. He could have moved faster and have been just as silent, but there was something peaceful about the rush of cold air and the solitude of being higher up than everyone else that made him slow down. Air vents, of course, were not nearly as appealing as a skyscraper's rooftop or a giant redwood tree, but it would have to do to calm the paranoia that had been itching at the back of his mind since New York. His mind would never be taken again.

The rough steel of the vents vibrated beneath his searching hands as he crawled in the direction of the mess hall. Blisteringly cold air rushed against his bent head, forcing his eyes closed from the oncoming blast. Inching forward, he had to rely on the differences in texture of the vents which were few and far between.

At an impasse, he turned right, though his mind yearned to turn left towards the shooting range. He shook his head to clear the primal thoughts of fight or flight, of which his response was always fight: first, he needed food, then he could plan how to go about breaking into a highly guarded area without being noticed. By now it had to be six in the morning, which guaranteed that the range would be filled with eager young agents looking to prove themselves and older agents attempting to smack some sense into the younger idiots who could barely handle a gun yet thought themselves proper SHILED agents.

Reaching a dip in the tunnel of vents, Barton reached out fumbling hands to the edge of a whickered screen. Pulling back on the steel lever, the screen swung softly down on its polished hinges, thanks to his first night coming to the mess hall and dousing the hinges with WD40 until they practically gleamed. Tucking his head between his shoulder blades, he leaned back until his spine lay directly on the vents, then pushed with his arms, bracing himself for the impact of the ground below.

"Barton, I wondered when you would get here," a deep, amused voice filtered in his ears. Glancing up warily from his crouched position where he had landed, he found himself staring at Director Fury, eye patch and all grinning at him. His beefy arms were crossed, but not in a threatening manner, more just that he was relaxed, which was never a good sign. "You could have just walked here, you know. No need to pull the theatrics now that you're back at home base."

"Theatrics, sir?" Barton answered calmly as he straightened.

Short of murdering the current director of SHIELD, Barton could see no clear escape from the ensuing conversation. Agents were posted at every exit down the long hallway, hands tightly gripping their stowed sidearms. "I think you have more theatrics right now, sir." Waving his hand toward a few of the gun-ready agents, he saw them tense, "Bit much really."

"Well you've made quite the impression lately, Barton. You know, there were some on the council that disagreed that you should be back in the field before passing a pysch eval." Fury's eyebrow quirked, as if daring Barton to try and wiggle his way out of whatever mind-probing schemes the director had planned.

"I'm not much one for following the council's opinions, sir." He shrugged, attempting to relax his shoulders and convince his brain he would not need to run.

The air vent still hung open above him but he had no doubt the trigger-happy agents would be thrilled to shoot him if ordered.

Fury smiled lightly, "Neither am I, son." Turning, the director signaled the agents guarded the mess hall to leave their posts, which they did reluctantly. "A little bird told me you've been sneaking down here at bizarre hours of the morning. Figured I'd catch you in the act and see for myself if the rumors were true."

Tentatively following twenty feet behind, Barton glanced to the side as one of the agents passed him, glaring intently with no desire to hide his displeasure at not having shot the traitor. "And what rumors would those be, sir?" If Fury noticed the hatred brimming in his guard's eyes, he didn't mention it.

Barton's hand itched to hold his bow again. His spine tingled in suspense: something he didn't want to be a part of was coming. "Romanoff's been worried about you. Said you barely leave your room since being back." Ah, there it was. Of course Nat had rated him out to Fury. Now that Coulson was gone she probably thought Fury might give a shit.

"That's funny, sir, considering Nat left two hours after I got back. Been waiting long to have this conversation?" His right hand was shaking. Disturbed at publically showing his need for being back in the range, he quickly shoved his hands into the pockets of the dark jeans he had assumed Nat had requested for him before she left.

He was an addict when it came to shooting his bow and having gone four conscious days without it was almost a record.

Glancing around the mess hall, Barton noted that it was suspiciously empty. So Fury had known when he would show up.

Pulling out a metal folding chair, Fury settled himself comfortably in the chair, gesturing to the chair opposite of him. But Barton had never been much for following orders when he was pissed so he chose to ignore the silent command by standing still as a statue and glaring openly at the director.

Raising his hands in surrender, Fury conceded. "Fine, be stubborn." A young girl practically ran from the direction of the kitchen with a plate of food that she almost dumped on the table in her rush. Fury smiled at her kindly as she, flustered, ran quickly from the room. Picking up a piece of toast covered in strawberry jam, the director bit into it without glancing back up at Clint. "You just going to stand there this whole conversation, Barton?" Crumbs dribbled out of Fury's mouth as he spoke, dirtying his normally pristine leather jacket.

Anger flared to life inside of Barton's chest; this felt much more like an interrogation than a simple lecture. "I'll get right to the point then." Pushing the plate of food away, Fury stood, ushering all of his imposing stature to try and make his glare meet the intensity level of the cold man glaring daggers at him across the table. "For once I actually agree with the council. You're a loose cannon right now, Barton, and we can't have uncertainty in the field."

Fury sighed in resignation, as if his words physically pained him. "Until you successfully pass those psych evals and start acting like a real agent again, you're confined to base." The director appeared annoyed over Barton's lack of any sort of response, as his voice grew tight in anger. "No more slinking around, got it?"

Again, no response.

How did Fury expect him to respond, Barton wondered. None of this was exactly new information, it was just reaffirming his current prison status. Hell, he would take being stranded with a bunch of idiots in the Alaskan wilderness with nothing to do but watch the silent landscape over imprisonment on a base that offered zero freedom. And Fury knew that he hated every second of being here. No wonder he had let him stew for a few days before commanding him to pass the psych evals.

Well, if Fury wanted them passed, they would be passed.

But that didn't mean Barton wasn't going to quit beating himself up for New York.

Fury had said absolutely nothing about Barton's time under Loki since Barton had been back, but that was more a cause of worry than relief. He wished people would bring it up and say what they were thinking rather than just glaring like far off predators that he couldn't reach without his bow.

A change of plans was needed: Those psych evals weren't going to be passed in his current state of mind but he was loathe to change his attitude.

Just another reason why you never give spies an opportunity to act.


	3. Chapter 3

In times past, SHIELD agents could walk around without care in crowded areas without anyone ever wondering why they were there, the good ones anyway. Life had been good hiding behind the secure protocols SHIELD had in place to keep the general public, and more importantly the people who wished SHIELD assets harm, from knowing who anyone in SHIELD was. In fact, those secure protocols were the only reason Clint Barton had agreed to join SHIELD when Coulson had finally caught up with him and offered him the deal. SHIELD was the perfect mask for an assassin; you never had to worry about a mark's allies coming after you because you were the perfect ghost.

Of course, all of the positives had blown up when Fury decided the best course of action to keep the world safe was to betray every single one of his loyal agents. But what did it matter since many of them were HYDRA anyway? Why not throw out the good and the bad together?

Now the once invisible men and women of the world were being thrust into the light, their covers blown and their carefully planned exit strategies useless.

SHIELD would never negotiate for their safe return; if you were caught, either find your way out or die guarding secrets you must never tell aloud.

Not that SHIELD could have negotiated even if they wanted to – SHIELD was dead.

Hell, even Fury had pretended to be dead for about an entire week! Not quite a record for him, but he always did have trouble not announcing his presence.

Everywhere you looked, whenever someone happened to bump into you on a crowded sidewalk, if someone stared a little longer than normal at your face, you wondered if they had been on the internet lately and noticed your face from the leaked SHIELD files detailing every single one of their agents, including current assignments.

Thankfully for Clint Barton, he had finished his latest - and apparently last - assignment two days prior to the leak and had just made his way back to Washington DC the day the information went worldwide.

The city was in complete uproar; not only were people surprised and pleased to see the famous Captain American and Black Widow running around supposedly defending the city, but doing a heck of a job destroying it in the process, the general populace had just found out about rouge agency intent on annihilating the world. It was turning out to be a mind-blowing Tuesday for people.

Buildings near the harbor were in shambles. Thick coats of mud covered the remains of a once glorious government base as the stone building sunk to the depths of water contaminated with the blood of hundreds of innocent bystanders and nefarious Hydra agents alike. Yet, amongst all of the bloodshed and treachery, the Avengers who were supposed to be saving the world barely showed their faces. Captain America had saved the world from mass murder in the end, but many more lives could have been spared.

 _Splash!_ The perfectly smooth stone that had been merrily skipping across the wreckage had run into a high-rising block of stone jutting out from the harbor's floor. That had been the tenth stone to fail in its mission to cross the entire three-hundred feet of harbor separating land from land. However, former SHILED agent Clint Barton was determined not to be defeated by the wonderfully ironic tribute of his life as a spy slowly sinking and decaying until the world forgot it ever existed, much like the smashed remains of the nearby helicarriers.

Trying to appear inconspicuous, he had donned a pair of white-washed jeans and a faded Captain America shirt just for good measure. The well-crafted black leather jacket threw off the "normal person" look slightly, but, with Hydra agents God-knows where, he had refused to leave the relative safety of his safe house without a few knives strapped along the liner of the jacket.

Bending down to pick up another stone, a solitary figure over by the edge of the bay caught his eye. Wary that the stone would make too much noise if dropped, Barton gripped the stone tighter in his right hand. Being careful to avoid stepping in the mud puddles and the mounds of loose pebbles, he slowly approached the target from the shadowed line of columns resilient enough to not have collapsed.

The man was oblivious to Barton's approach - he simply continued to stand still and stare at the lot of ground filled with still crumbling stone. His suit was covered in a thick layer of dust and grim – clearly he had been in the building when it collapsed two days prior and had yet to change his clothes.

Calculating the odds that the man before him would not be a large level threat, Barton decided to forgo the way of cold-blooded murder and attempt to glean any information from the man. Sticking his hand with the stone deep into his jean's pocket, Barton moved forward more quickly, allowing the mud and dust to cover his boots thoroughly.

"You ain't part of that salvaging crew, are you, mate?" The suited man jerked his head to the side at the sudden intrusion into his dark thoughts. "Excuse me say'in so," Barton gestured to the man's once impecible suit "but you don't look the sort to hang around a trash heap like this'un." Cocking his head to the side, Barton stared at the man with a worried look, "You ain't lost your marbles, have ya'?"

The suited man shook his head wildly, "N-no. L-l-look, I don't know what you're doing here, but you need to leave." Mind-numbing fear appeared to grab him as he stumbled away from Barton. "They could come back soon!" His eyes shifted from pile to pile of rubble as if he saw the world the way it was before the attack.

Pulling his hands in front of him, the suited man continued to step back. "They'll kill you! Hydra doesn't take prisoners."

Barton, who had been edging closer to the man, froze at the mention of 'Hydra'. Intent on covering up his emotional error, Barton tried his best to appear confused. "Who's that? Ain't no one ever come af'er me for noth'in. Wait, you high, mate?" He asked in an effort to solidify his persona like Natasha had taught him.

"This isn't how everything was supposed to turn out…" The suited man mumbled under his breath, completely ignoring Barton in the process. "They weren't all supposed to die-"

"Die?" Dropping all façade, Barton grabbed the man roughly by his shoulders. Spinning him back around, Barton glared angrily, "Where's my team?"

The man continued to shake his head, whimpering. "I thought I could do it – I thought I could pull the trigger."

"Dammit!" Barton cursed and sharply shoved the man away. The man was in shock and likely would be unable to give any helpful information any time soon.

 _I need to find Nat and the others._ He spared a quick glance toward the man now lying in the dirt, crying and talking to himself intently. "Couldn't do it…Said it was alright. …We'd be important."

 _Right now this man is the only link I have…Guess he'll have to start talking eventually._ "You better start praying my friends are alive." Clearly, the man was afraid for he shook in terror. Whether the terror was directed towards Barton's anger or at some other entity remained to be seen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, everyone. Thank you for being so patient!**

 **As I stated in my summery, trigger warnings are placed at the beginning of chapters. Well, we have officially come to the first one. This chapter contains some torture, so if you think that will trigger you, please just skip to the second part of the chapter!**

 **Enjoy!**

When done correctly, torture becomes an art form – instead of a paper canvas on which to paint an envisioned scene, the human body takes the responsibility of being a space where imagined images come to life. Blood becomes paint.

Crimson droplets splattered in ringlet puddles around a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. The harsh steel contrasted nicely with the apparent softness of the red liquid leaking out in a steady stream from the man tied with coarse rope to the chair. His arms were bound right side up, allowing for the soft skin to be exposed. Parallel lesions on both arms were responsible for the steady stream of blood flowing down to the ever-hungry floor.

"Please," the man managed to moan out around his shattered jaw. "Please, I don't…I know nothing!"

Suddenly releasing an ear-splitting scream, the tied up man looked anxiously towards the new source of his anguish. Thick blood pooled out from around a thin knife lodged in his right thigh.

Fat tears dripped heavily from the man's eyes. "Stop," he whimpered, "please, stop."

Former SHIELD agent Clint Barton stared down at the blubbering mess of a man. "Clearly you haven't been trained to not crack under torture." Shaking his head in mock sadness, he crouched down in front of the chained man. "Just tell me what I want to know."

At Barton's words the man did nothing but cry louder. "I do-don't know!"

"You're Hydra," Barton pressed down slightly on the knife embedded in the captive's leg, "You know something." At this point in the interrogation, Barton wasn't trying to keep his anger hidden any longer.

Desperation was clear in both men.

One wished he had never made it to work on the day Captain America and his team decided to blow SHIELD to high heaven.

The other was just really tired of all the shit the Avengers had to deal with.

"Tell me about the day that Hydra came out of the darkness." Realizing anger was getting him nowhere, Barton tried to make his voice sound calming, but he was certain his words came out sounding more like thinly veiled threats.

Nodding his head in nervous excitement, the Hydra agent practically threw his entire body up and down. Good thing the chair was chained down on he could have really hurt himself. "I-I didn't know nothing about coming out when I woke up. I just went to work all normal like…and then…" The man's head dropped sadly, "then everybody starting shooting…"

Eyes wild with despair, the Hydra agent brought his head up quickly. "But I didn't kill anybody! I promise." Though eager to prove his innocence, the man looked away in guilt. "I was supposed to…but I couldn't. They used to be my friends."

Disgust clouded Barton's face. "Your friends? If they were your friends, you would never have agreed to betray them in the first place, you bastard!" The desire to string this man up and watch him slowly bleed to death was growing.

But Barton had a mission to complete and killing this man would get him no closer to finding his team.

"Did you see anyone escape while you were standing about?"

The Hydra agent looked thoughtful for a moment, "You mean like Captain America?" At Barton's frustrated nod, he continued. "Yeah, he and some red-haired lady left after everybody was dead."

Barton quickly brought his hands to his face in an effort to not strangle the imbecile right then. "And you didn't think to mention this because…?"

"Well you were asking about your team. And I don't know you…"

Really? Was he really that invisible to everyone?

Pointing to the Captain America shirt he was currently wearing, Barton glared angrily at the man, "Why the hell do you think I'm wearing this stupid shirt?"

"I just…assumed you were a fan."

Without a response, Barton stood and turned away. Picking up the remainder of his knives from a small, metal table, he strolled toward the exit.

"Hey!" Hydra agent stupid called from behind him, "Aren't you going to let me go?"

There was a quaint little coffee shop about a mile from the Avengers' Tower that Tony Stark often had his assistants run down to for him. Once, he had tried getting Clint to go since no one else was around. Tony had been about a centimeter away from getting an arrow stuck in his head. He was lucky Barton hadn't been aiming to kill.

After that experience, no one asked Clint to do anything.

It wasn't that he had a short temper like Banner, he just couldn't stand to be around stupidity. If you wanted coffee, go get it yourself, dammit.

Sitting at a small table closet to the exit, Barton understood just why Tony liked this particular coffee shop. Tourists were crowded in so thickly Barton felt he would be suffocated just from being in the same room. But this shop seemed to be the best place to wait for a message from his team.

So he had been waiting.

For an entire week.

It seemed inconsiderate that no one had even contacted him to let him know that SHIELD was gone. No encypted message from Nat, no creepy phone call from Hill or Fury. Nothing.

After fifteen years at SHIELD, he expected at least a message on a scrap of paper like: _Ha ha, bastard. We took fifteen years of your life. Peace._

An old television in the corner had been constantly broadcasting news surrounding the battle Cap and Nat had found themselves in. Other than Hydra, he had no idea what the hell was going on.

"Need a refill, honey?" A plumb, middle-aged woman with the most bleach-blond hair imaginable approached his table with a pot full of steaming coffee.

Unwilling to speak on the off chance he went ballistic, he nodded.

It had been too long since he had his hands on his bow.

Thanks to Fury, his bow had been locked up at SHIELD headquarters. Now he had no idea if he would ever get it back. He felt like a scolded child who had their favorite toy taken away with no explanation besides "Daddy said so".

A few moments of awkward one-sided chitchat from the waitress later, Barton finally picked up his coffee mug, fully aware of the fact that he hated coffee. Too much caffeine was bad for your body and he needed to stay in the best possible shape.

Hastily scrawled on the napkin below his cup were the words: _We need to talk_. But no signature. Typical.

 _I'm really going to kill you, Nat_. He thought as he placed the full mug back onto the table.

"You couldn't have reached out a few weeks ago? Just had to let me sweat, didn't you?" He refused to look up at the person who had slid into the seat opposite him.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," a gruff voice answered. "We're pulling you back in."

Shocked at the unexpected masculine voice, Barton's head flung up. He hadn't heard that voice in over a decade. Not since…"Barney."

 **Cliffhangers are wonderful, no?**

 **Please Review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you to everyone who has read and followed this story so far! I promise that the story is moving forward and will begin to include more of Clint's past.**

 **Warnings for this chapter include some language.**

Chapter Five: _Eighteen years before the Battle of New York_

 _Location: Classified_

 ** _Twilight's orange and yellow hues gleamed through the thick branches of huge red and white oak trees, causing the forest's floor to be bathed in strange patterns. Unlike the less densely populated areas, light hardly ever made it all the way to the forest's ground._**

 **** ** _Darkness reigned._**

 **** ** _With each pounding footstep the ground shuddered as if it understood the gravely important chase currently taking place. Strong winds pushed forward the lone individual to help him further evade the men chasing behind with murderous intent._**

 **** ** _Breathing heavily, the lone young man ducked behind a strand of thick oaks. Dozens of men were after him. There was no doubt in his mind that they would split up to cover more ground._**

 **** ** _He couldn't outrun them forever. Not with a deep knife wound dangerously close to his spleen threatening to drain every inch of his body of its blood._**

 **** ** _And he only had four arrows left._**

 **** ** _Inhaling sharply at the sudden twinge of pain, he reluctantly dropped his black, compact bow to the muddy ground. Mud. That was what he needed._**

 **** ** _Falling to his knees, he reached out bleeding hands to the sticky, brown substance. Hurriedly plastering his abdomen in as much of the stuff as he could reach, the mud formed a thin shield to staunch the flow of blood._**

 **** ** _A shadow moved directly to his right._**

 **** ** _Hands covered in the still slick mud, he futilely reached out to take hold of his bow. But the shadow was faster and it mockingly kicked the precious bow feet away._**

 **** ** _Refusing to go down without a fight, the young man glared defiantly upwards at the man holding a gun inches from his face._**

 ** _"_** ** _Did you really think you were going to get out of here alive, Clint?"_**

 _Present Time_

 _Location: Tony Stark's favorite coffee shop_

"Clint?"

"…wrong with him?"

"It's probably not safe here…should go."

"Wakey wakey, Leogolas."

Fingers snapped together directly in front of Barton's face. _Gunshot_ , his muddled brain supplied. Without a glance toward anyone in the coffee shop, Barton's right hand shot upward. Grabbing the offending hand that had insisted on dragging him out of his thoughts, he twisted harshly until he felt the joints begin to pop out of their sockets.

Strong arms wrapped around his chest and tried pulling him away. Cheap, cream-colored diner plates crashed onto the tiled floor. Growling in frustration, Barton released the first man's arm and reached behind his head, struggling to find his attacker's neck. His vision burned red and the only sane thought running through his mind was that he could kill these people much easier with his bow.

Damn Fury and his stupid shit rules.

Giving up on finding a choke hold, Barton tensed all of his muscles and pushed back against the man holding him. Groaning at the sudden impact, the strong man's tight grip lightened just enough for Barton to duck out of.

Immediately, he was shoved against a thick column standing between two large panels of windows. "Snap out of it!"

Ignoring the ringing in his ears, he struggled to push back against the new person trying to pin him down. _Kill them_ , his brain whispered, _Kill them all_. "It's just me, Clint. It's Natasha."

Muscles tight in anger, Barton pushed himself off of the wall and shoved the offender away from him. "You'll never break me!" Ducking under a thrown fist, he barreled into the distorted shape standing before him. He felt bones snap beneath in the body beneath him.

Pulling from above, two separate sets of arms seized him and attempted to pull him up and away from the person crushed beneath him. Struggling uselessly to release himself, Barton kicked his current offender in the knee. The combined strength of his offenders proved to be too far surpassing his own. Roughly thrown with his back on the hard tile, Barton stared furiously into the eyes of the two men standing over him.

Suddenly, a thin woman appeared in his line of vision and kneeled over his pinned-down body. "You need to calm down. We aren't here to hurt you."

 _…_ _Nat?_ Vision clearing, Barton slowly took in the destroyed section of what used to be Stark's favorite tourist spot. Tiles from the floorboard had been ripped apart by his struggle with Cap and Stark. Plates had been smashed into tiny, edged pieces. Fearfully glancing upwards to see his teammate's reactions, Barton's eyes roamed from one face to the next unsure if any of them were injured. "Did I…hurt anyone?"

Natasha, who was kneeling beside him, slowly shook her head. "Nope, we're all okay."

In a daze, Barton carefully pushed himself into a sitting position, "But I felt something crack underneath me…"

"Yeah, I landed on a bunch of plates when you tackled me, but nothing's broken." Nat smiled softly in an effort to reassure her clearly distraught partner.

"Did you have to practically break my entire arm?" Stark whined.

Feeling embarrassed at attacking the members of his team, Barton quickly broke eye-contact and murmured a slight "You shouldn't test my reflexes like that."

Laughing, Natasha held out to hand to help Barton to his feet, "That really wasn't our intention. We came in here," she gestured around at the destroyed café, "because I wanted to explain what was going on."

Thoughts wondering, Barton stared around in confusion. "Explain…?"

Realization flooding through him, Barton suddenly sprung to his feet. "Yeah, explain! Why the hell did you blow up SHILED?" He shouted at Steve, "And why the hell did no one bother to tell me anything in the past three weeks?" Pacing, Barton continued raving at the top of his voice, "I've been wandering around without any idea if you all were dead!"

Tony stepped forward arrogantly, "Well, we just all holed up in the Avenger's Tower and celebrated being free from the corporate overlords." Natasha sent Stark a fierce glare.

Barton stopped in his tracks. "What?!" He roared, "You've been hiding?" Swinging his head to glare at each member individually, Barton's voice continued to rise, "You fucking bastards! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Placing a reassuring hand softly on Barton's shoulder, Natasha turned Barton around to face her, "Please, no one knew who to trust anymore after Hydra revealed themselves. It wasn't personally, Clint, Steve and I just wanted to keep the team small."

Dejected, Clint turned his face away, "…You didn't think you could trust me? I'd never be part of Hydra, Nat, you know that!" Anger clawed its way deeper into Barton's mind. Having the sudden urge to punch the nearest person, he deeply inhaled in order to keep his anger in check.

"We didn't mean to leave you out of the loop, Clint," Steve interjected, stepping forward. "There was no time to inform any other members of the team. Natasha was already in town, and the two of us just kind of ended up having to out SHIELD in order to keep the world safe."

"Look," Tony came forward, careful to stay out of Clint's close reach, "Can we just address the elephant in the room?" Confused, Steve, Nat, and Clint turned around. Pointing to Clint, Tony frowned thoughtfully, "Who did you think we were? And who the hell is Barney?"

 **I should have the next chapter up in under a week (hopefully). Until then, please enjoy and send reviews!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the delay in posting, everyone! Between finals last week and my internet being down, I haven't had much time lately to write or post anything new. This chapter is a bit longer than others in order to make up for you all having to wait so long.**

 **There aren't any real warnings for this chapter as it's mostly just an introduction into the life of a younger Clint Barton.**

 **Next week's chapter should be up by Monday! So you might get two chapters next week!**

 **Thank you to everyone who has followed this story so far! Please continue to review!**

 _Twenty Years before the Battle of New York_

 _Location: Classified_

 ** _Dim rays of a slowly rising sun filtered through black slate blinds, only to feebly strike against tinted windows in their vain attempt at reaching inside the darkly-colored stone compound. Decades of harsh weather had chipped away at the once pristine stonework, causing the walled-in compound to feel as if it belonged in another age. Impressively-carved gargoyles with their wings once spread large and wide appeared small and unworthy of their place of bold attention on the top of every towering structure._**

 **** ** _Each of the five large buildings in the compound was connected by stone walkthroughs on the ground and wooden catwalks up above, creating an unsteady bridge overlooking the grounds. The catwalks were made of old wood that had since been covered in moss and creaked warningly when too much pressure was applied on the wooden slates._**

 **** ** _Small two-story stone huts laid at the northern edge of the compound; their thatched roofs were mostly hidden by the branches of tall oaks. Where the stone had been chipped off from the foundation of the houses, wooden slates served to patch up the holes. Each hut was occupied by families no larger than five people. The hard-packed dirt served as the floor in each home. The homes were laid out in a pattern similar to temporary frontier homes, except each of these homes was built to last. On the ground floor was a small wood burning stove and a fold-out table intended to serve as a dining area; a tiny room off to the left side served as the main bedroom. On the second floor, connected to the first by a crudely built ladder, was a small loft area with thin mats covering the wooden slates._**

 **** ** _Each main building in the compound had a unique purpose: the largest building had a third story for dormitories, a second story for the medical wing, classrooms, training rooms, and four shooting ranges, and the first story held conditioning rooms, and a three-story tall room used only for special circumstances. A single-story, square building connected to the back and had a fully operational kitchen and dining area. To the right of the main building stood the two-story armory, and, connected to the armory stood an imposing tower used by the sentries on duty to watch the entire compound. To the left of the main building stood a large, flat building which housed aircraft, land vehicles, and briefing rooms._**

 **** ** _Clint Barton stood stiffly at attention at one end of a large, wooden conference table. Annoyance ticked at the back of his mind as he waited impatiently for the weekly briefing to be finished. He had a job to complete and the sooner he was able to leave the compound, the more secure he would feel. His burning eyes longed to wander freely around the room, but he had to pay close attention to the briefing. Unlike the ten other agents in the room, he could not afford to look away from the instructor for even a moment. For if he missed even a single word of his assignment, the consequences could prove disastrous: He could take out the wrong individual, he could miss his escape route. Even worse, he could be unprepared for the cognitive exam which followed every successful mission._**

 **** ** _So he remained patient and kept his eyes trained sharply on the man speaking. But he could not help his own nervous tick from showing the longer he was forced to remain at attention: His thumb, index finger, and middle finger on his right hand were bent and thumped softly on his other hand; every muscle in his body was ready to pull the bowstring tight and loosen a well-placed arrow into the heart of his assignment._**

 **** ** _At thirteen, he was the youngest agent to be allowed to leave on solo missions. Normally, the policy was that younger agents had to be accompanied by at least one full member as younger agents were more likely to be swayed in their loyalties. However, Clint was the exception as he was the best sniper available at the compound. Two years ago, he had surpassed his instructors' expectations and, after intensive field training, had been cleared for solo missions just last month._**

 **** ** _Eagerness flooded through him in waves as he watched the agent who was briefing. He watched the man carefully in order to not miss the man's hands twitch as if pulling a trigger. Clint had learned years ago that each person had nervous twitches and he had put the information to good use. For instance, he could always tell when his martial arts instructor was almost finished with the daily lesson when he wiped his sweaty forehead. As soon as he saw this man's telling movement, Clint planned to spring out the door._**

 **** ** _It was difficult not to keep glancing down at the instructor's hand._**

 **** ** _Thankfully, he had moved his eyes up in time to acknowledge the instructor staring directly at him, a question on his lips. "Do I need to repeat myself?" The stern frown on the man's face made Clint shake his head slowly._**

 ** _Inwardly, Clint groaned in frustration. Having an instructor specifically check to make sure he understood every single word would do nothing to help his popularity around the compound._**

 ** _He was already a favorite of those in the upper ranks._**

 ** _Not that his favoritism would stop any of his classmates from trying to stab him in his sleep. Again._**

 ** _It had been over four years since he had needed clarification._**

 ** _"_** ** _No, sir," He said, trying to keep his voice loud, "I understand."_**

 ** _Sweat collected thinly on his clasped hands._**

 ** _Off on his right, Clint could see one of the older agents shuffling his feet nervously. Curious of the reason for the man's shifty movements, Clint searched his brain for information that might lead to an explanation._** _Jakob Sanders, age nineteen. Currently under strict observation after an interrogation with two SHIELD agents went sideways and one agent made it out of the compound alive. His escape had sent the compound into defense mode. Twenty agents – including Clint – had spent the last two days searching for the convict. In the end, the search was concluded after Clint loosed an arrow into the agent's brain._ _ **Clint figured Sanders was only in the briefing room so someone always knew where he was. It would be a long time before Sanders was allowed back in the field, and, even then, he would be with a handler.**_

 ** _Sanders had been lucky not to be branded a traitor. Agents had been sent to the void for far less._**

 _"_ _Damn,"_ _ **Clint thought,**_ _"I lost track of the instructor again."_

 ** _Focusing was a whole lot easier when someone needed to die. Paying attention to long rants had never been Clint's area of expertise; just another reason why he preferred shooting from afar._**

 ** _Time ticked by slowly._**

 ** _Unexpectedly, a rush of adrenaline flooded through Clint and he ducked to the side before his mind had a chance to think. Pulling a five inch blade from his arm holster, he crouched at the ready, eyes darting over every inch of the room. Sanders lay in the steadily growing puddle of blood, a single bullet hole between his eyes._**

 ** _All around him, other agents began pulling their weapons as well, each individually searching for the assassin who had slayed one of their own. Clint's eyes narrowed in annoyance as he spotted a tall, dark blonde man with broad shoulders standing by the door with a satisfied grin on his face and a pistol in his left hand._**

 ** _Standing warily, Clint pressed the knife back into its sheath. Glancing back at the instructor, he nodded, excusing himself from the remainder of the briefing._**

 ** _Sliding past the man in the doorway and grabbing his arm, Clint led the way over to the line of small jets furthest away from the briefing area. Confident that the noise in the bay would keep them from being overheard, Clint released the man's arm and spun around to face him, "What the hell? Where you trying to kill me?" He demanded. Unintentionally, both his hands gripped daggers strapped to his thighs._**

 ** _"_** ** _Eh," the man shrugged, "I knew you would move."_**

 ** _A sudden flare of anger and pride sprung alive inside Clint's mind, "That's it? You counted on me moving in time to not get killed?" His hands tightened further on the handles of the daggers, no doubt his palms would be marked when he finally released his tight hold. "You can't just shoot people in the middle of a friggin' briefing, Barney!"_**

 ** _Barney shrugged again as he flipped the safety switch on the pistol. "He deserved it." His dark blue eyes flashed in twisted satisfaction at Clint's obvious frustration._**

 ** _"_** ** _Why? Because he let a SHIELD agent get away alive? His punishment was meant to be dealt out in a public manner –"_**

 ** _"_** ** _It was pretty public," Barney interrupted._**

 ** _"_** ** _-By the proper authorities!" Clint finished with another glare. "You can't just kill whoever you want. Traitors don't deserve to be killed with a single shot to the head, you know that!"_**

 ** _Backing away a few steps, Barney raised his hands in mock surrender, "In my defense, killing him was pretty fun. You should have seen Instructor Barret's face when he realized Sanders was dead."_**

 ** _Groaning in exasperation, Clint allowed his hands to release their death grip. "I'm not going to win this argument, am I?"_**

 ** _Barney shook his head, "Traitors deserve death, little brother. No exceptions."_**

 **You might be asking, "WHAT IS GOING ON?"**

 **Hang in there, everything will make sense soon. ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello, everyone!**

 **I was finally able to piece together this chapter again after losing most of it to a computer error a couple of days ago. As a "thank you" for sticking with my fan fiction so long, this chapter is considerably longer than future chapters.**

 **Just a few pointers to make reading easier for future chapters which will include many different forms of written communication:**

 **1\. When plain italics are used** _(like_ _this)_ **it indicates Clint's inner thoughts.**

 **2\. When bold italics are used** ** _(like this)_** **it indicates past memories.**

 **3\. I don't plan to use this particular format again, but it may pop up.** _"Italics in quotation marks indicate silent communication, such as lip-reading and sign language."_ **Yes, Clint is technically deaf in this story, but I have chosen not to use much sign language as it doesn't transfer onto paper well. This being said, he is not fully deaf and therefore hearing aids would work better and I feel I can get away with it, especially when considering that Tony Stark can make any technological invention.**

 ****Warnings for this chapter: Slight language.****

 _Present Time_

 _Location: Tony Stark_ _'_ _s favorite coffee shop_

"Look," Tony came forward, careful to stay out of Clint's close reach, "Can we just address the elephant in the room?" Confused, Steve, Nat, and Clint turned around. Pointing to Clint, Tony frowned thoughtfully, "Who did you think we were? And who's Barney?"

"Barney." Clint repeated slowly, "that's uh, complicated." No one moved. "Speaking of complicated things, where the hell did all the costumers go?" Clint gestured around at the normally bustling shop. The overly cheerful waitress with a cheap spray-on tan and tacky bleach- blonde hair was nowhere to be seen, not the Clint was unhappy to be rid of her presence; peppy people always filled him with the desire to shoot someone.

The two smiling baristas who had been behind the counter moments before had fled the building in a hurry, leaving black coffee dripping from the pour spouts of their machines. Not one person sat at the worn booths either. "Seriously, did I miss the apocalypse?"

Time ticked by slowly.

"Banner got everybody out while we were busy fighting you," Nat explained gently. "We just wanted to make sure they were all safe." _Like I would really hurt civilians,_ Clint fumed. _Though I guess I did just try to kill the majority of my team. Woops. My bad._

Steve kept bouncing his eyes around the coffee shop, carefully avoiding making direct eye contact with Clint and Tony kept opening and closing his mouth as if a hinge was loose in his jaw. Natasha's eyes slid down to the knife in Clint's hand, "It might help everyone's nerves if you put that away."

"Right," Clint responded automatically. His mind was still distracted, stuck in past conversations filled with fully unveiled threats and dangerous combat missions where no one could be trusted. Clicking back into the present, Clint focused on Nat, "Wait. Why did you leave me a note under my coffee mug if you were just planning on coming in here to talk?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed in confusion, "What note?"

"The note you left me," Clint replied. Glancing to the left of the wall known as Steve Rogers, he saw that Tony had pulled out his upgraded smartphone and had no doubt starting searching through SHIELD's formally encrypted files for anyone named Barney. _He_ _'_ _s not in there,_ Clint reassured himself, _Stark won_ _'_ _t find anything useful in my file._

"We didn't leave you a note, Clint." Steve interjected. "We all thought it would be best if we came to you personally."

A thousand different scenarios flashed through Clint's mind. Impossible option: Nat and Steve were both lying. Unlikely option: The note had been intended for someone else. More likely option: No one here actually knew anything about a note. Most likely option: Barney had found him and life was about to go to shit. With the last option, there were likely going to be terribly loud explosions – you know, the kind they show in TV shows with cars bursting into flames, except larger and much more real – and dramatic scenes filled with terror-ridden people running straight into a maniac laughing sinisterly as he gunned down the entire planet.

It was really best for civilized society if it wasn't the last option.

"I see," Clint nodded in mock understanding, "this is some sort of intervention, isn't it?" Triumphant, his eyes jumped from one face to the next. "Is this because I tortured a guy last week?" Holding up his hands in surrender, he slowly backed away from the team and walked backward to his former seat. "I know, I know, 'Torture is wrong, Clint'. But really guys, it wasn't that big a deal. The guy was an incompetent Hydra agent. He pretty much deserved to be tortured."

Tony barely glanced up with his search through SHIELD files, "He is deflecting."

Poor naïve Steve, however, stared in flabbergasted amazement. "You tortured someone?" He angrily stated. _Okay, so maybe not amazement_ , Clint surmised. "People have rights!" He bellowed, "Besides, there are other ways to get information!"

"Like standing around waiting for one of you to bother showing up?" Reaching his right hand slowly behind his back, Clint began his carefully hidden search underneath the table. "I tried asking around but I'm pretty sure people thought I was just some kind of groupie."

"How many times are you going to make us apologize, Clint?" Natasha stepped forward briskly, "You've had to wait for extractions in war-torn areas longer than it's taken us to find you!" Her steady finger was pointed directly between his eyes and seemed to hold every ounce of her anger. Good thing was, Natasha was never able to stay angry with him for long.

"Maybe I would have been more patient if someone," he glared accusingly at Steve, "hadn't just blown up my job!"

During the uncomfortable silence that followed, Clint returned the glares pointed his way as his hand continued roving under the tabletop. His index finger caught on a thick portion of the table causing his heart rate to increase rapidly.

Keeping his face carefully composed, his eyes shifted to glance at the nearest exit. "So…" Clint carefully removed his hand from under the table and awkwardly shoved his hands into his faded jean's pockets, "is this a bad time to say we're about to be blown to shreds?"

Before waiting for a visual response, Clint flung himself forward and tackled Natasha to the tilted ground. She twisted underneath him in annoyance. "Was that really necessary?" she bit out, breathless frustration coated her words.

"Sorry," he chuckled lightly as he pushed himself off her. Reaching out a hand to help Natasha back to her feet, he glanced around to see where Steve and Tony had ended up. Due to everyone's lack of armor, Cap had pulled himself and Tony behind a collapsed table to shield them from the blast. "I was feeling a bit dramatic," he shrugged in a half-hearted apology.

Determined not to make direct eye-contact with Natasha – she had this weird sixth sense of being able to call him out on his bullshit – Clint began briskly walking toward the back exit. "You might want to make a heroic dash out of the building, Cap," he called over his shoulder. At his words, Natasha's iron resistance faded.

"I'm going to kill you," A slender hand wrapped around his right wrist and pulled with the strength given by an adrenaline rush. Not bothering to look back to see if Steve had heard that the bomb threat actually was a real thing, Clint allowed Natasha to pull him angrily from the building; he had learned a long time ago that she generally liked to be the first one running from the source of an explosion. Besides, wasting time to argue issues of pride with a ticked off Russian never seemed to end well for him.

Heat radiated quickly outwards from the source of detonation. Hungry flames flickered directly behind Clint's fleeing form even after he and Nat had cleared the coffee shop. Disoriented from the smoke, Clint found his reflexes to be a tad behind schedule when the second blast shook the busy Manhattan street. The shockwave knocked Clint clean off his feet; taking the opportunity, he ripped his arm free from Natasha's steel grip in a feeble effort to have her propelled further from danger.

 _Damn._ Clint hit the asphalt road with a sickening crash. Unlike his earlier brawl with Nat, he knew for a fact that some body part had to be broken. Waves of pain crashed over his body. Too stunned to stand, he attempted to lift his head from the dirty street, only to find his mind in a fog. _I really need to stop getting blown up_ , he groaned.

Thick smoke obscured his vision. Blinded, he pushed upwards, forcing his beaten body into a crouched position. _Shit,_ he shoved bleeding fingers through a large torn chunk from the middle of his leather jacket. _I actually liked this thing._ Shrapnel from the blast had blown multiple holes through his clothes, knocking loose three of his four remaining daggers from their placement.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder.

Sharp pain radiated down his right arm. Forcing his body to work through the pain, he swung his left hand up, grabbed his attacker's arm and pulled the man over his own body down onto the hard ground.

Or, that's what should have happened.

Instead of swinging the man over his body and slamming him onto the asphalt, his strong pull did nothing to remove the man's hand from his shoulder. Looking upwards in anger, he swung his left fist where his attacker's lower ribs should be. However, his attack was again blocked. Struggling weakly against his much stronger attacker did nothing as his arms were pinned to his side. He let out a string of curse words in Russian as he was pulled to his feet.

His burning eyes drifted across the man's face. _Cap? Of course it is._ As soon as he saw Clint was standing properly, he released Clint's arms. Steve's mouth was moving quickly. Too quickly for Clint to be able to keep up in his disoriented state. Clint held up a hand to slow Steve down but Steve continued to speak frantically, the thick muscles in his arms bulged as he gestured out. Following Steve's pointing, Clint squinted through the smoke to see a stumbling Tony and straight-backed Natasha helping wounded civilians to their feet.

With a quick slap on the back, Steve ran forward with all his superhuman strength to assist in getting the injured out of the way of further harm. _Classic Samaritan._ His body's first reflex was to step forward to help. He was halfway to a thin man withering around on the ground in pain who was holding tightly to a bloody stump of an arm when he saw a tall figure move out of the corner of his eye.

 _The note._

 _The bomb._

 _Barney._

Adrenaline flooded his bruised body as he forced his feet to run across the uneven pavement. The once straight street now looked like a major construction site, albeit without the tacky orange cones and mismatched yellow and red construction vehicles lying around. He ran forward with a limp and followed the shady figure two blocks away from the destroyed city block. Shoving through small crowds of concerned passersby and alert cops who shot him threatening looks, he glared straight ahead at the one figure who stuck out like a sore thumb. _Long, black trench coat matched with black work boots. Faded leather watch on left arm. Buzz cut blonde hair; thick white scar starting at the bottom of his right ear, traveling down his jaw and stopping midpoint down his neck. Only one person had that exact scar._

"Son of a bitch," he breathed.

The coated man ducked off the main sidewalk into a thin alley. Following closely behind, Clint rounded the corner only to be faced with a dead end. He glanced quickly around as not to miss crucial evidence. Overflowing dumpsters stood beside the entrance to an old Chinese restaurant Stark often ordered from. Their eggrolls were crap. Thankfully not literally, though Clint had thought to sneak into Stark's high-tech lab to test the offensive product just to verify.

Civilians rarely traveled down this alley as evidenced by the chaotic cleanliness of the haphazardly stacked boxes laid with care. Thick weeds grew close together and climbed high up the walls forming the alley. Bright sunlight flooded the area, discouraging junkies and juvenile delinquents from loitering too long. A thin metal ladder lay in a small patch of shade directly behind the rickety dumpster.

All-in-all, not a bad place for an assassin to duck off the main path, considering he was quick enough.

The ladder bent under Clint's weight as he quickly climbed upwards. Wary of meeting an assailant when he made it over the edge, he slowed his ascent. Cautiously, he propelled himself up the last few rungs, somersaulted through the air and landed in a forward facing crouch on the flat rooftop. Years of reflex kicked in as his right hand instantly plucked one of his few remaining daggers from the inside of his jacket.

An old air condition unit spun slowly on the abandoned roof top. Cracked and faded roof tiles lay scattered across the surface of the roof. Wafts of chicken grease and spicy sauces stuck out against the strong smells of urine and sweat generally found in crowded cities. Clint involuntarily wrinkled his nose against the offensive odor while his eyes roamed the roof top, searching desperately for any sign of the bomber.

Standing warily, Clint tightened his grip on the dagger handle. The man could be anywhere: Hanging precariously off the roof, hiding directly behind the air conditioner unit which held absolutely zero chance of him not being seen, or he was halfway out of New York City. A flat roof top held the fewest amount of places to hide.

However, this roof would be the perfect location for a sniper's mission. Taller than most of the old apartment buildings in the block, the roof afforded a clear view of this small part of the city. The important question remaining: Who was the intended target?

Walking forward slowly, Clint kept his eyes roaming. Whoever had been stationed here had clearly been in a hurry. Two pairs of muddy boot prints covered the expanse of the small roof top. On a hunch, he decided to follow the older, faded pair of prints first. _Deep impressions in the dry dirt suggest the first man was was heavy set, most of his mass is probably muscle not fat or he couldn_ _'_ _t move quickly enough to escape. Even if he was toting loads of surveillance equipment, a tiny dude wouldn't make such an impact._

In a crouch to avoid possible sniper fire on the off chance one of the perpetrators actually found a higher ground from which to shoot, Clint inched closer to the far right side of the roof where the sniper's rifle still perched on the roof's lip. Snapping the gun off the wall, Clint quickly stashed the rifle out of view from any civilians gazing upwards. He doubted anyone had seen the gun what with the city's favorite coffee shop in burning tatters, but better safe than induce another panic.

Though he had already touched the weapon, Clint wasn't too concerned with getting his prints on the crime scene. SHIELD had already released all of his personal information to the general public, so it was no longer a secret to most that he was one of the world's best sharpshooters. Quite possibly, he was the best as he yet had run into another normal human being who could out shoot him. _If those idiot scientists would just quit messing with human genetics, I would still be the best. Completely uncontested. Damn those_ _'_ _special' humans._

Still, old habits prevented Clint from picking up the rifle a second time. Instead, he relied on his eyes and memory. _Blaser_ _'_ _93 Tactical. German make, not traditionally carried by many in the United States, or by the German Army for that matter. 6.5x55mm bottlenecked cartridge. Low recoil, smaller bullet diameter. Sweden stopped making these bullets back in the 1990's…What is this guy doing with old ammo? Man, I haven't seen one of these beauties in years. It's certainly an effective weapon…But there's just something awesome about seeing the look of utter surprise on an unlucky bastard's face when he's shot through with an arrow. Good times._

The scope on the rifle was still open. _Maybe I got here before the sniper could take his shot. But then why blow up the cafe? Barney knew I would follow him_ _…_ _So why lead me back to his partner's location? This set up certainly doesn't feel like a trap…No snipers are positioned on any of the higher rooftops. Besides, Barney would never allow anyone else to shoot at me. It's so wonderful that he cares enough to want to shoot me himself. What a great brother,_ he thought sarcastically.

Fear alleviated, Barton stood and quietly surveyed the surrounding area. The second set of foot prints appeared lighter and less defined in the bright noon sun. Then again, Barney had always been an expert at covering his tracks. Other than the trap idea that Clint had already dismissed, the only other reasonable explanation for Barney to leave behind prints was his haste. _Hmm_ _…_ _Maybe he didn't expect me to follow him after all._ A warm feeling of pride flushed through his mind at the thought. _He didn_ _'_ _t plan for my reaction. Somehow, I was able to surprise him and throw off their plans without even knowing what was happening. Go me!_

Lost in his thoughts, Clint happened to glance out the corner of his right eye just in time to see the sun glisten off the metal barrel of a pistol. Without a chance to think, he quickly dove to the other side of the roof where a stack of rotten cardboard boxes sat decomposing slowly under the sweltering heat of the sun. Heat pumping adrenaline throughout his body in a steady fashion, Clint reached for his knives again, only to be disappointed when his calm hands only found one remaining. _To throw or not to throw the only weapon I have_ _…_

 _Guess it_ _'_ _s a good thing I never miss._

Silently, he waited as the lone figure's shadow crept closer to his hiding spot. The shadow stretched out long and thin over the portion of roof he could see from behind the mold-covered shadows tended to exaggerate a person's figure, Clint could only speculate to the person's identity. A mop of curls framed the approaching figure's head like the crude squiggles drawn by an impatient child. _Definitely female then._ _…_ _Or one of those weird hippies who grow their hair out really long, sort of like Thor. Seriously, did that guy start the hippie craze or just add to it with his random appearances on earth? Earth's defender: He doesn't deserve the title. All he did was bring his family's insane drama to earth and partially help clean it up while destroying a few city blocks in the process._

Pausing directly in front of his peep hole, the shadow raised it's tree branch arms in preparation to shoot. Immediately, Clint side-stepped out from the the gun's direct path. His right arm drew back to throw his final weapon at the enemy standing before him, "Nat?" Purposefully pulling his wrist slightly to the left as the dagger left his grasp, the blade sailed harmlessly past Natasha, clipping a few strands of hair from her ginger head. Wincing at the consequence of his action, Barton quickly raised his hands in mock surrender, "Sorry, my bad about your hair. In my defense though, I did manage not to kill you and I'm pretty sure that's the closest I've ever come to missing a target."

He just barely managed to duck off to the side as a bullet from Natasha's gun flew past his right ear. Her lips stretched upwards in a smile as she cheerily put her gun back in its holster. Shrugging lightly, she turned her back on him to continue surveying the area for himself. After all, an assassin could never be too careful.

"What are you doing following me while there are civilians that need help?" He demanded, feeling totally defenseless against his armed partner.

A sudden heat of anger washed over him at her refusal to answer. Crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest, he desperately hoped the action would hide his shaking hands from view. Man, he really needed to shoot something. A person could only take so much stress before it was time to fire a few dozen volleys of arrows into stuffed dummies again. Because apparently - according to Fury and Coulson, and almost everyone else - it was **wrong** and **illegal** to roam the city streets looking for test subjects to pincushion.

"I asked you a question, Nat!" He stepped forward with the intention of turning her around to face him, only to freeze mid-step as a sudden realization hit him. _Shit._

Flustered, Natasha turned, hands on hips and eyes practically spitting annoyance, _You have got to be kidding me, Clint! I_ _'_ _ve already said this twice!"_ Her narrowed eyes softened into a glance filled with pity and understanding when she saw his hand sneak up to his right ear, only to come away dripping with blood.

 _God, pity is annoying as hell,_ Clint groaned. "It's possible I may have misplaced my hearing aids again during the inconvenient explosion at the cafe. …And maybe fractured something in the process."

Glancing him up and down like a mother who just wanted to know where she went wrong, Nat puckered her lips together and stared him dead in the face. _"_ _I'll say. You have a piece of bone sticking out of your left knee, you idiot."_

Clint glanced down sharply. _Ah,_ he thought, _that explains the excruciating pain._ "How come you always manage to make it out of these things without barely a scratch?" He took in her entire form, from her ash-covered face down to her perfect shoes. "Seriously, I get impaled and you don't even scuff your shoes? That's damn unfair."

 _"_ _Life's 'damn unfair',_ she replied with a coy smile.

"At least explain why you followed me, mistress of cleanliness." _She always gets angry when I call her that. Eh, what can I say? It_ _'_ _s fun to joke._

 _"_ _Fine,"_ she growled, waving her hands to clear away the former conversation. _"_ _I'll go over this one more time."_ Breathing deeply, she began conveying her story for the third time in the span of five minutes. _"_ _After I cleared my head from the smoke, I started helping the civilians away from the burning building, because, you know, I'm actually helpful."_ Her pointed glare served it's evil purpose in making Clint even more uncomfortable. _Then I saw you chasing after someone so I figured I_ _'_ _d lend a hand since Cap, Stark, and Banner seemed to have everything under control."_

Nodding absently, he pulled his arms even closer to his chest. "So you didn't think I could handle myself? Nice."

If an angry Russian's piercing glare could make someone's head explode, Clint would have found himself dead on the spot. _"You're seriously an idiot sometimes."_ Just as quickly as her anger flared, it seemed to die down again with a simple shrug of her shoulders. _"_ _I help keep you on track. I guess that's why we've gotten along so well as partners so far."_

 _'_ _So far'? At least she still has respect for our insanely awesome team abilities. Who needs the other four guys? Nat and I were doing just fine before those bumbling fools intruded in our lives._

Pointing at his ear she stated in what Clint assumed to be a commanding tone, _"_ _You should really let Stark take a look and see if he can make you some better aids. Preferably ones that aren't easily blown out by an explosive blast."_

The topic of his deafness always caused an uncomfortable twisting to begin in Clint's abdomen. _Why can_ _'_ _t you just let this drop, Nat? The team already doesn't trust me after my stint under Loki's stupid mind control. If I tell them now that I'm even less helpful to their super-human group than they thought well, then I might as well not be in the team. Besides, nothing's the matter with me, except my lack of proper hearing. But really, I'm not fully deaf; I can handle it. And still out shoot everyone on this team._ Instead of voicing his insecurities aloud however, he simply glanced away. "That would mean telling them. And it's not a huge issue so I see no purpose to adding to their personal knowledge of me." Confident in his ability to flippantly joke his way out of the serious conversation, he dug his hands deep into the still-intact pockets of his ripped jeans and smiled wide. "I think Stark might place a laser or tiny gun in any hearing aids he makes for me, and I'm really not comfortable with bullets shooting out of ear. It just seems really unsafe."

 _"_ _You're a stubborn ass, Barton."_ Flipping her hair with her head, Nat attempted staring him down, even though Clint was a good inch and a half taller. _"_ _Either tell them, or I will. And, while you're at it,"_ she added slyly, _"_ _it might be a good idea to inform them that you're older brother is a psychopath who enjoys killing people for seemingly no reason."_ Moving back to the ladder, she began climbing down the only way she knew how: Jumping down the las ten feet and landing perfectly unharmed.

"Well, see now, that's just completely unnecessary for them to know!" He yelled pointlessly after her retreating figure.

 **Thank you all for reading! Please remember to review, as I absolutely love hearing what you all think - whether positive comments or ideas for future improvement.**

 **I know this chapter didn't seem to move the plot further along, but I really wanted to explore Clint and Natasha's changed relationship dynamic now that they are part of the Avengers. I promise, though, that this chapter actually serves a greater purpose than you think!**

 **Also, as a point of interest, this fan fiction is going to be fairly long so I hope you all stick along for the ride.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello, readers!**

 **Yes, I have finally returned.**

 **Sorry for the delay in posting; once my sporadic summer work schedule is finished, I will be able to post more frequently.**

 **Warnings: Mentions of torture, though nothing too graphic in this chapter.**

 **Thank you all for continuing to read!**

"Are you positive this thing isn't going to melt my brain, Stark?" Clint stared uneasily at the tiny blue blob of electrical wires covered in a translucent plastic coating which Stark swore would change color to blend in with Clint's complexion as soon as the device was placed in his ear.

"Calm down, fledgling, I'm a professional." Tony Stark declared confidently as he continued fidgeting with some other technological invention Clint couldn't hope to understand.

A harsh scoff escaped Clint's lips, "Yeah, you're a professional weapon's developer, metal man. I think I'm allowed to worry."

 _Besides, there was that ONE time when my hearing aids actually did blow up_ _…_ _Completely unrelated to Stark, though._

Frowning in annoyance at his present situation, Clint carefully poked the hearing device with his free hand.

Nothing immediately burst into flames. That was generally a positive sign.

How had Natasha managed to talk him into spilling one of his biggest secrets? Clint was sure he had no idea. One minute he was contemplating what he should pull out of the fridge for lunch, and the next he was surrounded by three concerned male faces while Natasha smirked in the background.

He thanked his lucky stars that Thor hadn't been around for the big revelation. No doubt he would have burst into a lament about a wounded warrior. And he would probably have included tales of strange creatures that could suck the soul out of innocent people. Thor's stories tended to be a bit random as they quickly diverted from the original plot.

"Yeah, yeah…" Stark murmured in response. Clearly, he was more focused on his latest creation than Clint's worried mind. "I just have a few more tests to run - and then…" He trailed off. Plucking the mess of wires from Clint's outstretched hand, Stark inserted the blob into a small compartment on his main desktop computer.

At once, a seemingly never-ending list of binary code popped up on the monitor.

Seeing that the scientist was too preoccupied with his work to pay him any mind, Clint began slowly backing out of the room, eager to escape the walls of technology boxing him in. _Man, what I wouldn_ _'_ _t give for a glade of trees, some unsuspecting deer, and my bow right now._

Technology had never been Clint's favorite invention. Growing up in the Midwest, his family had placed a large amount of importance on being able to live off the land and rely on one's own skills to survive, not butler robots and floating computer screens.

 _Almost there._ Clint had just wrapped his right hand firmly around the handle of the door leading to the next story of Tony's insanely tall home when he saw a tall, broad shadow slowly heading down the same stairs. _Damn,_ he thought. _So close._

Letting go of the door handle, he allowed the presence on the other side to step through the doorway.

"Cap," Clint nodded quickly in recognition, knowing that any pause in greeting on his part would earn an immediate glance of concern from the antique soldier.

Captain America's muscular frame took up most of the doorway, effectively blocking any chance Clint had of escaping from Stark's lair from conventional methods like running up a few flights of stairs. Though air vents were always an option, Stark had annoyingly built tall ceilings in every room in the "Avengers Tower". Since Clint couldn't fly or simply jump nearly high enough to even open the vents, he scrapped the air vent plan.

Another option was to climb out through the ridiculously large windows covering the far window and free-scaling the outside of the tower. A desperate option, to be sure, but Clint was a desperate man.

A sudden sharp movement off to his right drew Clint's attention fully away from thoughts of escape. Ducking under the outstretched arm of the enemy, Clint dove to the side swiftly, pulling a new pistol from its holster and aiming it directly at his target. Finger tight on the trigger, Clint narrowed his eyes as he sighted down the pistol as he would the scope on a sniper rifle. _Breathe and shoot_.

 _One clean motion._

Thankfully, Cap's super strength led to better reflexes and he managed to dive to the left just as the bullet from Clint's pistol thundered past.

Still, Clint had a reputation of never missing to uphold.

A thin stream of blood ran quickly down from where the bullet had lodged in Cap's lower left arm. _Damn._ Clint flicked the safety back on, holstered his pistol, and stepped forward to help before remembering that, duh, Cap had **super strength**. The bullet was probably nothing more than a slight annoyance.

"Sorry," Clint mumbled, sheepishly avoiding either man's shocked gaze. "My bad."

Clenching his hands tightly, Clint had to use every ounce of his self-control to avoid whipping out his gun again when Cap shifted his weight and moved his hand in a waving motion, no doubt trying to get Clint's attention.

Glancing up, Clint allowed his eyes to meet those of his leader, "Didn't intend to shoot you," Clint mumbled again, uncertain whether anyone could hear him.

Gesturing to his wounded arm, Cap shook his head. To Clint's eyes, he seemed to form the words "no big deal". Either that or a string of curses. He guessed it was the first.

Grabbing hold of Clint's attention through excessive arm waving, Stark smugly held out two smaller blue clumps of wires. "Try these," he mouthed, being sure to over-enunciate.

Clint rolled his eyes in response, never having been able to pass up mocking Stark. Gingerly shoving the balls of wire into his ears, he tried hard not to think what his brain would look like splattered on Tony's glass walls.

Once the hearing aides were in place, there was a slight shifting in Clint's ears as the wires contorted to the shape of his ear, exactly the way Stark promised they would.

A soft whirring noise startled Clint into action. His left hand flew up to his ear in an attempt to pull out and crush the offensive device. However, a stern look from Stark gave him pause. "It's just testing out a couple different frequencies. Don't be so jumpy." Tony huffed in obvious disbelief that anyone could possibly not be a fan of his work.

The loudness of Stark's voice forced Clint to flinch even though he had undergone years of training that should have taught him how NOT to flinch in uncomfortable situations.

But Stark seemed pleased by Clint's reaction. "Good, you can hear us now." Turning back to his computers, he continued, "Just a couple of questions so I can make sure everything is working correctly."

Clint nodded in response out of habit before remembering that Stark would want a verbal response. "Right, now comes the second stage of the poking and prodding." Clint groaned inwardly at his raspy tone; he always forgot that not using his voice for a few days tended to make it sound…broken. No wonder the team had been sending him weird glances today.

"Is the volume fine? Don't want to overload the devices…" Stark trailed off.

 _Sure,_ _'_ _cause you can't make my ears worse so why worry about me over your stupid devices._ "A little on the loud side," he confessed.

"Any unusual buzzing?"

 _Um, besides the obvious answer of_ _"_ _duh, everything because you have too many technological devices down here and they sound like rats on steroids!"_ "Not really," he answered calmly.

"Okay," Stark continued pressing random buttons on his computer screen to input information. "Just one more question," he turned to face Clint, a determined look in his eye, "How did you happen to go deaf?"

Cap, who had been rather quiet and still since being shot, stepped away from the doorway, interest clear on his face. But, being the considerate American hero that he was, he refused to simply allow Stark to finish his interrogation. "Barton, you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

 _No, duh._ Clint thought sarcastically. _I can look after myself, old man._

Instead of voicing his unhappiness about sharing a vital piece of his childhood with people he still was not truly comfortable around, he reminded himself that Natasha would force the issue later if he refused to share now.

 _Besides,_ his consciouses stated, _you_ _'_ _re supposed to be a team. And teams share vital information._

"About a year after I joined SHIELD, I was on a simple recon mission over in Barcelona…" The lie was out before his brain had a moment to catch up, but he couldn't simply stop in the middle and tell the truth.

No, never the truth.

Besides, if even Coulson and Nat hadn't known the Spain story was fake, then no one else was ever going to know.

 ** _*** Twenty-six years earlier_**

 ** _Mosquitoes buzzed nosily around a young Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s head as he tossed and turned in his sleep. A thin layer of sweat collected on Clint's forehead as he struggled to wake up from his dream._**

 **** ** _Whereas most seven year-olds_** ** _'_** ** _dreams consisted of talking animals or having super powers, Clint found himself prone to having recurring nightmares. Unlike the common 'monster under the bed' or 'being afraid of the dark', a palpable fear of some unknown entity plagued his every sleeping moment._**

 ** _He longed to run as fast as he could away from fear itself. Yet, in every nightmare, he found himself rooted in place as dread filled his mind._**

 ** _Running wasn_** ** _'_** ** _t brave._**

 ** _Then again, no one ever said he had to be brave._**

 ** _Just stronger than his fear._**

 ** _So every night when he found himself again stuck in place, forced to stand ground instead of being allowed to run, he reminded himself that facing his fear could only make him stronger._**

 ** _This night, it was the thick darkness surrounding his dream self that caused his heart to beat small part of his mind that understood he was in a dream screamed at him to_** ** _"_** ** _wake up!". As normal, however, his legs refused to move even an inch. Whoever controlled the shadows was coming for him as they did every night. Surely it was only a matter of time before they took over his every waking moment and scarred any happy memories that had managed to store themselves in his young mind._**

 ** _Blind terror twisted his stomach into knots as his eyes searched desperately for any weapon within reach._**

 ** _He should have realized by now that there was never anything to defend himself with._**

 ** _Dark, bare trees reached greedily up into the pitch-black night sky, yearning for any glimpse of light to feed their growth. Dry grass cracked loudly under a harsh, bitter wind which sent blasts of coldness through Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s small frame._**

 ** _Off in the distance, Clint dimly heard the echos of starving wolves howling their last._**

 ** _A thin shiver of fear spread down his spine._**

 ** _Eyes staring straight ahead, he imagined that he could make out the faintest outline of whatever creature continually haunted his dreams._**

 ** _Though every night was the same, a dim ray of hope flared to life whenever he sensed the monster approaching. Maybe tonight would be the night he broke free. Maybe tonight he would slay the darkness holding him._**

 ** _He felt more than heard the creature grow closer to his dormant form. It reached sinisterly toward him with it_** ** _'_** ** _s razor-sharp fingers, its devious intent clear on its warped face._**

 ** _Tonight was not the night he yearned for._**

 ** _A sharp prick to his upper right arm sent warning alarms ringing in Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s head as be bolted upright in bed._**

 ** _"_** ** _Oh good, you're awake." A stoic voice to his left proclaimed with just a hint of pride._**

 ** _"_** ** _Barney!" Clint exclaimed in shock as he gasped to catch his breath, "Why are you pinching me?"_**

 ** _"_** ** _Eh," Barney shrugged his shoulders carelessly even though his eyes seemed determined and anything but careless. "It seemed like a fun idea when I first thought of it. Gotta say, you're reaction was pretty priceless."_**

 ** _Angry at having to be saved from a nightmare by his older brother, Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s voice rose in pitch, "Price-"_**

 ** _Barney_** ** _'_** ** _s face twisted into a frown, "Hey, hey, hey, do you want to wake up everybody else?"_**

 ** _Realizing that the consequences of accidentally waking their father from his deep sleep would not be pleasant, Clint clicked his mouth shut quickly as he carefully listened for any sign of movement from the first floor where their parents_** ** _'_** ** _bedroom was._**

 ** _Barney arched his eyebrows in acknowledgment before walking briskly to the loft_** ** _'_** ** _s ladder. Impatience seized Barney almost immediately as he waved Clint over furiously._**

 ** _Carefully tip-toeing over, he watched in awe as Barney descended the old, creaky ladder without making a single sound, even when his feet hit the hard-packed dirt._**

 ** _Hesitantly, Clint began his own descent down the ladder, silently repeating_** ** _"_** ** _don't make noise" over and over in his head. Climbing down a ladder successfully was just a small test compared to his day's normal routine of intense combat training and sparring with the other children, after all._**

 ** _Three thirds down, the rotting wood gave way ever so slightly. A sound like thunder blasted in Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s eardrums as he dropped quickly to the ground. A two-inch splinter dug into the palm of his left hand. However, his panic pushed the sharp pain into a bearable numb sensation as he stared upwards at the small crack in the ladder. "Do you think they heard that?" he whispered over to Barney who had crouched low in a battle stance in preparation at the sudden noise._**

 ** _A tense moment passed before Barney straightened upright again,_** ** _"_** ** _I don't hear anything from their room…" He cocked his head to the side for a moment to listen more carefully before nodding slightly, "Yeah, seems like they're still asleep. I don't hear any cussing, anyway" A split second later, Barney had crossed the living area, pride open the locked door, and confidently walked out into the cold, still darkness between midnight and early morning._**

 ** _Other than the soft hum of mosquitoes and the light chirping of crickets, the night was completely silent as the brothers made their way past the main compound, snuck past a few mildly alert guards, climbed over the stone wall and the barbed wire fence, and ran quickly into the welcoming shade of the outer forest. Clint grunted in annoyance, feeling the fresh bullet-sized wound inflicted from his lost fight with the barbed-wire fence._**

 ** _A mocking breeze blew gently against the back of Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s head as stumbled after his fleet-footed older brother. Sweat dropped in beads down his face and he longed to stop beneath one of the large, shady trees and escape the sweltering heat of the night. However, he knew Barney well enough to know he would never stop, which would mean Clint would lose track of where Barney had gone, which could lead to his being out all night and being punished for sneaking out after curfew. None of the instructors would care that sneaking out had been Barney's idea and that Clint had only gone because his brother insisted. No, most likely they would make a lecture out of his rule-breaking on how important it was to follow orders, no matter what anyone else was doing._**

 ** _So Clint pushed his pain and tiredness to the back of his mind as he struggled to keep up with Barney. Clint wearily thought that at least he had shoes on and was not currently tearing up his feet as he tripped and stumbled on overturned rocks and sharp twigs._**

 ** _"_** ** _Where are we even going?" Clint managed to gasp out after a good twenty minutes of fast-paced walking._**

 ** _"_** ** _Almost there!" Barney shouted over his shoulder. Barney froze so suddenly in his tracks that Clint had to swerve to the right in order to avoid running into him. Barney turned around and Clint could just barely make out a frown on his face, "Why? You tired?"_**

 ** _Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s alarm bells went off inside his head again. "No…" he answered softly. Any wrong word or movement now could send Barney into a tailspin and Clint desperately did not want to be alone with an angry Barney. Whispering softly in order to avoid incurring the wrath of his brother, Clint stepped subconsciously backward as he spoke, "I just wanted to make sure we weren't going too far since we need to be back at the compound for classes soon."_**

 ** _Barney waved his hand dismissively,_** ** _"_** ** _Eh, we'll be back. Besides, it's not like anyone is going to be upset with me being the favorite and all." In the pitch darkness, Clint imagined he saw a wide smirk clearly covering his brother's normally scowling features._**

 ** _"_** ** _Right," he muttered under his breath, "cause you're the best."_**

 ** _Barney nodded aggressively in reply,_** ** _"_** ** _Yes, that is a proven fact." He stepped forward silently, forcing Clint to step backward until he hit a rough tree. "However, I have come up with a brilliant idea to make you better."_**

 ** _Terror struck Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s stomach like a hand full of knives being plunged into his body all at once. "B-better how?"_**

 ** _Barney shrugged passively,_** ** _"_** ** _Remember how you're constantly getting whooped in hand-to-hand combat since you're always getting distracted?" Without waiting for an answer, Barney continued, peals of excitement running deeply in his puberty-inflicted voice. "Well, I know how to fix you."_**

 ** _"_** ** _Fix…me?"_**

 ** _In the penetrating darkness, Clint could just make out a thin sliver of something in Barney_** ** _'_** ** _s hand that gleamed slightly under the distant moon. "It might hurt a bit, but it'll work."_**

 ** _Smashed as he was against the large oak tree, Clint saw no clear escape route from whatever hurtful deed his brother was planning. Before the cold hand of fear overtook his young mind, Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s last glimpse of reality was his brother advancing closer with his instrument of pain._**

 ** _*** Present Day_**

"…and I had no choice but to activate the bomb if I wanted to lower the lose of civilian lives. It turns out that bombs are really a lot louder when they're exploding twenty feet away from you…Who knew?" Clint ended his story with a half—hearted shrug as he eyed Cap and Stark carefully to gauge their reactions.

 _The good news is that if they check with Nat to corroborate my story, she will since she doesn_ _'_ _t know any other version._ A tremor of chills flew down his spine as his mind flashed back to the feeling of that long, sharp needle being plunged into his ear canal. The burning pain still woke him up at nights, convincing his mind for a few short moments that his nightmares had was a wonder he hadn't bled to death by the time a scouting party had found him and Barney away from the compound.

Absently, his left hand reached up, intending on feeling fresh blood pouring from his damaged ears.

He could still hear the garbled sadistic laughter of his brother as he watched him writhe on the ground in agony.

"…the good news is that you were able to save all those civilians," Cap was proudly saying.

"Huh, what?" Clint forced his brain back into the present, "Oh yeah. Saving people. Always a good thing." Not knowing what else to do with his hands, Clint flashed a quick thumbs up their way. "Always looking for the positive."

Clint had never - well besides the few obvious times when his life was saved - been more glad to see his partner. Before Natasha had even left the staircase, he had crossed behind the two men to wait at the bottom of the stairs. Giving Clint some sort of motherly disapproving glance - no doubt she thought he had been doing something to go against the whole team-building thing - she gave Steve and Tony a quick smile. "Well if you boys are finished swapping war stories, I need to borrow Clint for a few minutes."

Beside her, Clint's right fist tightened in concern. Natasha never used his first name around anyone else unless it was a matter of great importance.

Excusing himself quickly, he nervously followed Natasha up the stairs to the main living floor in the Avengers Tower. Instead of stopping at the couches as expected, Natasha continued to the elevator. "What's this about, Nat?"

She shook her head, "Not here."

Stepping into the elevator caused Jarvis' voice to come over the speakers, "Which floor would you like?"

"The roof, please, Jarvis," she replied casually.

The remainder of the surprisingly fast ride up twenty stories to the roof gave Clint little time to wonder at the disconcerting manner in which Natasha refused to make any sort of eye contact with him. _What blew up this time?_

Reaching the roof, Natasha graciously allowed Clint to hurry out in front of her, fully aware of his unease at being locked inside a small moving box held up by nothing except bunches of wires entwined together. And who knew how Stark had designed his superior elevators? They probably caused gravity to reverse itself and zoomed upwards without the help of pesky wiring.

A calm breeze blew across the surface of the flat roof. Breathing in the sweet air, Clint closed his eyes for a moment and imagined that he was somewhere he felt relatively safe: A small farmhouse nestled at the beginnings of a wild wood with a plain of flowing grass stretching out as far as the eye could see. There was little to fear when you could anticipate your enemies' every move.

"Clint?" Natasha's voice came to his ears lacking the usual biting snark and with a gentleness she reserved for whenever she felt a need to be careful around him. Unlike the rest of the "team", she understood that he was more than a man who made sarcastic comments and shot aliens out of the sky with ridiculous precision.

Forcing his mind away from its safe place, Clint turned to face his partner, eyes narrowed in an expression of concern. "What's going on, Nat? You've been avoiding me ever since Stark's coffee shop blew up.

Still, her eyes shifted around the rooftop, never landing directly on his face for more than a few seconds at a time. "There's something…important I need to tell you." Glancing warily at the video cameras Stark had installed near the doorway of the rooftop, Natasha pulled a simple pistol from her side holster and fired off four clean shots into the hearts of the cameras.

The harsh smell of burned electronics hit Clint suddenly as the cool breeze switched direction. "Was that really necessary?" he questioned, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell.

"I figured you wouldn't want Stark eavesdropping," she stated quietly.

Putting away her pistol, Natasha's calm smile dropped as quickly as she had put it on. "Not all the SHIELD files made it out to the public." She now seemed intent on watching Clint's every facial change. "Before Fury and I released all of the information, I may have made a few slight…adjustments."

"What sort of adjustments?" He asked slowly.

"I had a promise to keep," she replied simply. Sighing deeply, she stared him right in the eyes, "I deleted ever mention of you in the SHIELD database. You never existed."

Confusion clouded his senses, "You did what?" He asked dumbly.

"I promised you a long time ago that…well, that no one would ever find out-"

"But wait," his words tumbled out faster than his mind could process them, "you could have erased your own files; made your life so much easier! You wouldn't have to be dealing with government bureaucrats intent on making you look like an awful human being. Why would you risk all that just to erase me? Just think of what you could be doing now in-"

Agitated, Natasha held up a hand to cease his rant. "Look, you gave me a second chance all those years ago even when I didn't deserve it." Stepping closer, she shook her head, determined not to let him interrupted a second time. "I'm not saying my recent actions were a repayment of your choice, I just need you to understand that I made an informed - if a bit hasty - decision that I wouldn't change for the world."

"Besides," she lowered her raised hand, dropping her head to stare intently at the paved rooftop, "I told you I would help keep them safe…and this seemed like the only way."

For the third time in a manner of a few weeks, Clint's world shattered.

His mind slowly worked through her words, going through every possible outcome of her actions.

SHIELD had fallen, yes.

He no longer was hidden from those hunting him.

But none of that mattered if _they_ were safe from Hydra.

A simple "thank you" seemed insufficient. Yet he couldn't settle on any better phrase to use so he merely continued to stare gratefully at Natasha, the one person who had always been ready to defend him, no matter the cost to her own safety.

A gentle nod was all the response he received.

And as he stood on top of one of the highest buildings in New York City, a fading sun throwing rays of orange and red across the bustling city, he thought that life couldn't get much better than a large weight finally being lifted.

"Also, there's one more thing," Natasha broke the long silence with a smug grin. "I brought you a present, it's downstairs."

Confused, worried, and excited, he followed her back into the less-constricting elevator down to the common floor where Stark stood with arms crossed in annoyance. "You shot my cameras?" he demanded.

"You shouldn't try to spy on us - you ought to know better by now, Stark." Natasha replied calmly, slipping past the ticked off scientist and crossing to the kitchen area.

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to build and install those things?"

Clint began an estimation in his head, "Well, with the help of your robots, I'm guessing it didn't take you any time at all and you just watched them work."

Stark scoffed in return and proceeded to lecture both assassins on the intricacies of robot technology.

But Clint's focus was immediately drawn to the large, black case in Natasha's outstretched hands. "Where did you find that?" he breathed.

With a wide grin, she handed it over, "I may have stolen it from the armory before SHIELD HQ exploded."

Reverently, he took the case, running his hands over the carefully crafted leather. Then, in a daze, he walked back to the elevator shaft, not even pausing to acknowledge Stark's raving.

"Where do you think you're going, Legolas? We aren't finished discussing this!" Stark yelled after him.

Leaning against the granite counter, Natasha couldn't help but laugh. "Forget it, Stark, he's not listening." With a knowing glance at her partner's retreating form, she turned to pour herself a cup of coffee, "He has a date with some targets."

 **Next chapter is going to jump ahead a bit to Age of Ultron so there will be some battle scenes coming soon!**


	9. Chapter 9

_Directly before the events in_ _"_ _Age of Ultron"_

 _Location: Avengers Tower_

"…That's your brilliant plan, Stark? To just bombard the compound with missiles until the shield breaks and then just send you in?" Clint stared around at the rest of the Avengers who seemed too distracted with their own battle plans to notice the flaw in Stark's. "Seriously? We're just trusting him to not screw up the entire operation?"

Sitting with perfect posture beside him, Natasha shrugged as she shuffled through the few maps Jarvis had been able to find of the compound. "Seeing as Thor is the only other one of us who can fly, it's not a bad plan."

Incredulous, Clint spun his metal folding chair to face her, "You're agreeing with _him_ now?" he demanded.

Other than a slight dip of her head, Natasha made no reply.

Clint groaned softly in frustration before standing from the uncomfortable seat. "Fine then." _Guess I_ _'_ _ll go get ready to be a completely useless member of this "team",_ he thought bitterly. "Suppose we should all suit up," he said in a voice devoid of any harshness.

A small smile spread on Steve's face at Clint's statement, "Glad to see my ideas are catching on."

 _Because none of the rest of us are smart enough to not go into battle with no amour?_ Clint just nodded in reply, a fake hint of laughter gleaming in his eye. "I'm going to get some practice in before we leave," he muttered softly to Natasha, knowing she would hear him even if he spoke softly from the other side of the room - it was one of her many gifts that came from spending far too much time with him.

Lounging on a plush sofa nearby, Stark laughed heartily. "Yeah, you better get some practice in if you want to actually be helpful!"

Clint had to forcibly hold himself back from placing one of his wrist daggers into Stark's throat, forever silencing the arrogant bastard. _At least I have actual skills and don_ _'_ _t run around in a suit made of iron, hoping that my stupid computer trackers find targets._ Instead of voicing his thoughts, Clint let out a partially amused scoff as he relaxed his muscles, hoping Natasha had been too busy pouring over the blueprints to notice his anger.

Before Stark could make another smart-ass comment, Clint quickly strode from the room.

His feet knew the way to the range well enough that he didn't have to consider where he was going. However, due to the paranoia that comes from spending the majority of your life being an assassin, Clint never followed the same path two days in a row. Yesterday, he had taken a more direct route by taking the stairs down to the twenty-sixth floor where he proceeded to abandon the staircase entirely and scaled the remaining seven floors down the elevator chute.

Stark relied far too much on technology for Clint's tastes. He longed for the freedom he had in his childhood to scale rafters and climb to the tops of trees without ever having to deal with elevators to get you to your destination.

Only once so far had Clint free-climbed down the side of the Avengers Tower to reach the shooting range. Apparently Jarvis thought the action was too dangerous and had alerted his master to what Clint was doing. Natasha was the only one who laughed and seemed to think the action was normal - everyone else had been too busy scolding him to notice he couldn't give a shit what they thought about his "antics" as Stark so glamorously called them. _You_ _'_ _re the one who's crazy, Stark._ Clint reminded himself with a small grin.

Though Clint had been pretty certain that Captain America - _Steve,_ Clint repeated softly - had been too busy being impressed by a "regular" human free-climbing a building to be too astonished. Thor had made some patronizing comment about "humans being such delicate beings". Bruce's reaction had been the most surprising, though Clint really should have seen the lecture coming from the team's resident doctor. He was just glad the Hulk had stayed away - man, that creature had some serious issues other than the obvious anger.

Distracted by his thoughts, his feet had led him though the main living area, out through the double-glass doors leading to a large balcony, and all the way to the edge. Balancing on the ball of his right foot, he hopped onto the ledge, crouching down low to avoid the strong gusts of wind.

Today was a good day to be reckless.

Glancing back into the tower, he realized with sudden clarity that none of his teammates had noticed his walk to the ledge. _It_ _'_ _s a good thing I'm not about to off myself._ Though he had to admit that the change of pace from constantly being berated to being basically ignored by the majority of the team was somewhat welcome. If he wasn't going to be recognized for his talents and usefulness, he would rather people not remember him at all.

Anonymity had kept him alive this long, after all.

Well that, and the fear he struck into the hearts of anyone who someone managed to face him and not die - which was a rare occurrence.

Without his bow, the trick he was about to attempt was much more challenging. But that was the whole point of a challenge, right?

From the wrist holder that always remained practically glued to his right arm, Clint took out a small strand of wire which he proceeded to hook onto one of the hoops of the thin belt he was wearing. Glancing down to gauge the distance, he unraveled the wire a bit more to allow for a longer drop before clipping the loose end around a study pole on his ledge.

 _I_ _'_ _d love to see anyone else try this,_ he thought smugly as he jumped backwards off the ledge.

For a brief moment, he floated gently in the air, admiring the calm breeze that flew past his ears.

Gravity took over in a hurry.

Quite suddenly, his body realized it was falling; muscles tensed for a hard impact and his eyes lost focus as the building flashed by him. Years of training kept his hands steady on the wire and his brain calm in the midst of defying basic laws of physics. Namely, how people weren't supposed to fall as it generally led to brains all over the sidewalk.

No doubt after this latest stunt of his was revealed, Bruce would add free-falling to the list of things that were banned in the tower for safety reasons. Clint often wondered if the majority of the team forgot what he had done for a living before he met them. How did they think he got away from the families and guards of the loved-ones he was ordered to kill?

As the nineteenth floor grew closer, Clint wrapped the remaining loose wire around his hand and angled his body forward toward the building. Seeing as Stark would be angry if he smashed a window - though he could easily afford to have the thing replaced - Clint stopped his quick descent so that he was parallel to the building. Using his empty left hand, he pulled against the bottom of the glass window until it lifted slightly from its location. Pushing upwards, he was able to force the window open to create a large enough space for him to get through.

Swinging his body forward, he caught the lip of the windowsill with the back of his feet, which he used to pull himself closer. Once his legs were securely inside the tower, he loosened the bit of wire around his hand, giving him enough slack wire to bring his entire body through the open window. Crouching down below the windowsill out of habit, he unhooked the wire from his belt and pushed in back out the window, letting the thin wire swing freely in the light breeze. _Might as well leave that there for now in case I need to make a quick escape later. After all, one never knows with Stark._

Clint would have preferred having the shooting range on a higher floor as it was more gratifying to climb higher rather than descend lower, closer to where other people often lived, but he didn't expect Stark to understand his need for high altitudes when even Natasha sometimes gave him odd glances when he scaled any rafter he ran across.

Thinking of Natasha again made Clint stop dead in his tracks. Her indifference lately felt more like a stab to the back than when SHIELD had fallen and he feared his life was on display for all his enemies to see. And he had many enemies.

What sort of self-respecting assassin didn't?

Still, Clint couldn't help but feeling like an unwanted sixth wheel most of the time. It was clear to him that Natasha - with all her flaws and tendencies to kill before asking questions - fit in with the team much better than he did. Which shouldn't have shocked him as he preferred to go solo - having to rely on no one but himself, and Nat if she was around.

Shaking his head to clear the spiraling direction of his thoughts, Clint continued on down the incredibly bright hallway toward the tower's only archery range.

Try as he might, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of anxiety that had come over him earlier when the team - mostly Stark - had been discussing the best way to retrieve Loki's staff from Hydra. The simple reminder of that staff made his blood boil. Soon after the attack on New York, Natasha had tried hard to get him to open up about his feelings on what had transpired - meaning his mind-controlled rampage through the ranks of SHIELD agents - but he had been unwilling to share most of the details.

 _But, it wasn_ _'_ _t really mind-control, was it?_ A sinister voice whispered in the corners of his mind.

Uneasy, he glanced down and was surprised to find his compact bow already strung and in his hands, ready to fire another arrow into the heart of the poor cut-out figure three-hundred yards away - that was the good part about Stark designing a range, it certainly didn't lack in size. _Damn._

Slowly, he rose the bow back up to fire again. This time, he wasn't surprised to see a fair number of arrows already sticking out of the cut-out people lined up far away. He had clearly been at this for quite some time.

He enjoyed the quick **snap** of the string as his most recent arrow flew toward its mark, hitting the figure dead-center. As always.

 _Maybe for the others it felt like being controlled, but-_ even in his unheard thoughts, he hesitated to speak the truth. Nat would never have understood if he had tried telling her what really happened - how he killed because had been on a mission. No, it was more than that. He killed because some distant part of him had craved watching his tipped arrow rip apart a man's throat; he had enjoyed the look of final terror as they fell from their once secure positions.

Yet…killing had never bothered him as much as it seemed to bother people like Steve Rogers. Even Natasha, in all her ninja glory, had lines she refused to cross because she understood the grave consequences that would follow.

For years, he had tried forcing his mind to accept that all people deserved to live, that life was a beautiful thing that shouldn't be taken needlessly. But it had never quite clicked.

No, the problem sat far deeper in his soul than his brief enjoyment at ending a life. That was a hunter's way, after all: Kill or be killed.

Loki's staff - or really the magical stone powering the damn thing - had managed to worm its way into the recesses of his mind, to bring back to the surface the cold reality of feeling nothing that had once been his life.

But he couldn't go back.

He refused with everything in him. He would not surrender to the darkness. He wouldn't let Barney win, not after everything that had happened.

With a soft twang, he realized he was out of arrows. His arms ached at the brutal exercise they had just endured and he distantly wondered how many hours he had been in the range. Surely someone was looking for him by now?

 _Though,_ he admitted with a slight frown, _I would have sensed anyone sneaking up on me._ In the windowless room, it was almost impossible to tell the time of day. However, he estimated that he had been in the range about four hours, putting it well past midnight.

 _I am what I am._ The grim thought did nothing to improve his sour mood as he recalled the targets in order to fetch his arrows. _And what are you, exactly?_ The cold voice whispered back. _A murderer? A hero? A man fighting for justice?_ Clint would have sworn the voice laughed at his growing anxiety. _What you are is a lier. If they knew the truth about you, do you really think they wouldn_ _'_ _t hunt you down?_

Out of habit, Clint gripped his bow tighter, squeezing the metal into his hand hard enough for it to break the callused skin. _You knew exactly what you were doing; you weren_ _'_ _t under anyone's control but your own. And that thought terrifies you._

 _Because you_ _'_ _re exactly like_ ** _him._**

The bow fell quickly from his hands as Clint backed away from the weapon. _I_ _'_ _m nothing like him,_ he thought determinedly.

But the thought had already spread its poison throughout the alleys of his mind. Backing off, he found his back hitting the hard wall. Unnatural fear clung to his mind. _Up._ His eyes desperately searched for an escape route. _I need to go up._

But there was no "up" in the Avengers Tower unless he climbed the building, the elevator shaft, or the stairs. Stark didn't believe in escape routes, it seemed.

Tightening his hands into fists, he closed his eyes and squeezed as hard possible, digging his fingernails through his already broken skin into the bloody mess below. _I refuse to let him win!_

 _But he already has,_ the voice chanted back with a menacing laugh.

 **All I can say is: Wow, this chapter got a lot more psychological than I anticipated.**

 **I know I promised you a battle - so does one of the mind count? ...no? Well, guess the next chapter will just have to be longer.**


	10. Chapter 10

**To all who have waited, here is the tenth chapter!**

 **...I know, it's pretty short. On the plus side, the next chapter will be posted by Wednesday evening!**

 **Warnings: This chapter is pretty dark and shows death with gruesome details.**

 ** _Twenty-two years earlier_**

 ** _Location: Classified_**

 ** _Sighting down the scope, he could barely make out a shadowy figure of a man kneeling over in exhaustion, panting wildly. Fear had spurned the man to running - more of jogging really - and stumbling through the woods for the past twenty minutes. This feat was unimpressive, however, as the man hadn_** ** _'_** ** _t managed to run farther than the better part of a mile, seeing as Clint could still make out the blurry outline of the man who seemed to want to collapse. Didn't he realize he was being chased? Why stop and pant?_**

 ** _"_** ** _You got him?" A monotonous voice asked over his shoulder._**

 ** _Clint pressed tighter on the trigger as an answer, afraid that if he moved his head even the slightest, the man would disappear from his line of sight._**

 ** _"_** ** _Good," the voice continued, "Now we wait to see who catches the prey first."_**

 ** _Barely a moment later, two slinking figures popped up on Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s scope. Keeping his aim steady, his eyes glanced quickly at the two young boys slowly creeping closer to the anxious man. Watching his prey carefully, the sudden image of a passive deer pressed itself to the forefront of Clint's mind. When alert and aware of possible danger, deer had a tendency to bound away quickly in the futile hopes of survival. However, when, like this man, the deer wrongly thought the danger had passed, they fell into a carefree stance of grazing - until the moment an arrow protruded from their neck, of course._**

 ** _Unlike most hunters who aimed for the midsection in order to provide a quick and relatively painless death to their prey, Clint understood that the act of hunting was truly about being the most accurate. If the prey suffered, well, that was no real cause of concern. In Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s eyes, life was quite simple: If you didn't want to suffer a painfully excruciating end, then don't get caught by people who want you dead._**

 ** _Drawing two short hunting knives from their hip-sheaths, the two young boys crept closer. Sticking to the supposed safety of the thin shadows the tall trees provided, the children were obviously unaware of the danger that lurked far behind and above._**

 ** _Right hand ready on the trigger, Clint reached his left hand upward swiftly, flipping the tiny switch on his hearing aid to the_** ** _"_** ** _off" position: The last thing he needed right now was Barney constantly telling him how to do his job._**

 ** _Just as the larger of the two boys raised his arm to plunge his knife into the unsuspecting back of the escaped captive, a single bullet ripped through the boy_** ** _'_** ** _s shoulder, causing him to drop the knife with - what Clint could only assume to be - a wail of agony._**

 ** _Looking around in terror, the shorter boy tried to make a mad dash back to the shade of the trees, but another bullet shattered his right kneecap, forcing the child to the ground in tears._**

 ** _Before the kneeling man could stand fully to his feet, a well-placed bullet tore through the jugular vein in his neck. The corpse teetered for a moment as the man_** ** _'_** ** _s brain frantically tried to keep the heart beating._**

 ** _But to no avail._**

 ** _From Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s position, he could not make out the grisly end of his prey, but he could imagine the scene: Thick crimson blood spurting out following the path of the fatal bullet; lungs filling with blood as the man gasped desperately for a couple of excruciating seconds; panic overriding the brain's ability to function; and finally, the body would fall forward from the harsh trajectory of the bullet, crashing to the ground an empty shell._**

 ** _Sudden movement out of the corner of his eye brought Clint_** ** _'_** ** _s mind back to the present. Swiftly releasing the squeezed trigger, he made to stand upright, pulling the rifle with him; his other hand reaching unwillingly to turn the world back to "loud"._**

 ** _"_** ** _Leave it," Barney's gruff voice sounded horribly deafening through the electrical wires, "you aren't finished here, yet."_**

 ** _Sighing softly in annoyance, Clint crouched back down before the sniper rifle_** ** _'_** ** _s scope, "The target is already neutralized. It's not like I can kill him again." He grumbled softly._**

 ** _"_** ** _What was that?" Barney demanded harshly._**

 ** _"_** ** _Nothing," Clint replied, more out of habit than necessity._** _And I_ _'_ _m the one with a hearing problem, how ironic._ ** _Sighting down the scope gave him something to do as he impatiently waited for Barney to continue with whatever orders he had decided to come up with today. Their superiors had thought it best to give Barney a few more responsibilities than a normal fifteen year-old would be honored with in order to_** ** _"_** ** _keep him occupied" as Clint had overheard one the officers saying. Being almost deaf and having hearing aids that could be turned off and on at will turned out to be pretty useful - no one expected you to be listening in on their conversations._**

 ** _Not that he would ever admit that aloud to Barney._**

 ** _Clint assumed these extra duties that Barney had been assigned had more to do with their superiors trying to keep a tight hold on an unstable agent more than helping to promote Barney into the higher ranks. Of course, Clint also figured that if he had guessed this much, Barney would have as well. They tended to think along the same wavelength, if, at times, not in the same direction._**

 ** _Nevertheless, the change in position now gave Barney a limited amount of executive power over hunting missions and assassinations. Basically, Clint felt that he was being forced to spend more time with his brother as Barney considered no other agent worth the time of day - which was ironic considering Clint was still deeply in training._**

 ** _Training to be more deadly, though Clint felt he had that part pretty much down. It was the hardening of his mind that he had trouble with._**

 ** _There were moments, fleeting as they were, that Clint found himself wondering what exactly was wired wrongly in his brain. Everyone around him was constantly killing - as those in a war are often forced to - and they never seemed to have any moral complications with their decisions. Often, Clint had to force his_** ** _"_** ** _moral compass" - he read the term in a book once, one he wasn't supposed to be reading - to point due South, like everyone else._**

 ** _Follow orders, no matter what._**

 ** _Life was not precious. It just WAS until the day it ended suddenly._**

 ** _Feel no pity for your enemies for they have chosen their destructive end._**

 ** _This was not to say Clint considered himself soft in comparison to his comrades, as he instinctively knew better than to voice any concerns that took a fleeting flight in the dark recesses of his young mind._**

 ** _To question orders was to face the same punishment as those who envisioned progress and necessary sacrifices as inhumane and cruel._**

 ** _To think outside the parameters of a mission_** ** _'_** ** _s goal was considered treacherous._**

 ** _To harbor hidden dissent within one_** ** _'_** ** _s heart, to unknowingly long for the utter destruction of all traditional ways, for these mental rebellions there was no more fitting punishment than never speaking aloud and continuing to follow orders as the soul slowly breaks into thousands of tiny ice shards, unable to come together and form a brighter worldview._**

 ** _This was the hell to which Clint found himself locked in a death vice, daily growing tighter around his heart, freezing any and all thoughts of resistance._**

 ** _"_** ** _Take out the others," Barney's toneless voice filtered through Clint's hearing aids, cutting through his mental reserves in an instant._**

 ** _"_** ** _Those aren't my orders," he retorted, trying his hardest to match the monotone level of speech Barney seemed to have been born with._**

 ** _"_** ** _New orders," Barney replied with a twisted grin. Clearly, he had expected Clint's automatic refusal to put down two of their own agents without 'proper authorization'. Truthfully, Clint understood that this was merely a test concocted by either Barney or one of his superiors to ensure that all orders were being followed, no matter how distasteful it might be to murder two children by the hand of a younger child. "Well?"_**

 ** _Turning his back on his older brother, Clint once again knelt and placed his rifle in position._**

 _Trevor Harren, age fifteen. Proficient in hand-to-hand combat. Two successful solo missions, ten completed missions in all. Responsible for the assassination of four SHIELD agents. Never questions orders._

 ** _The taller boy was beginning to attempt pushing himself off the ground, slick in his own blood._**

 ** _A solitary bullet bore a fatal hole into the his skull from behind. The power of the rifle_** ** _'_** ** _s shot propelled the bullet out of the skull in a burst of brains and blood, exiting the stretched skin directly between the eyes._**

 _Neil Leech, age fourteen. Sufficient skill with pistols, higher marks in espionage and retrieval. No solo missions completed, only three missions attempted, of which only one was successful. Weak in manner and feeble in mental faculties._

 ** _Now that the first bullet had been loosened from his holster, Clint refused to give the shorter boy the chance to hobble away on his remaining good leg. Instead, barely ten seconds after the first boy fell forever in the dirt, a second bullet bearing a message of death drilled sideways into the kneeling boy_** ** _'_** ** _s skull, plastering the dirt with thick lifeblood._**

 ** _Seeing no other movement through his scope, Clint stood swiftly, all the while refusing to look Barney in the eye._**

 ** _Yet, he couldn_** ** _'_** ** _t help the thrill running up his spine as he mentally added the boys' names to his list of accomplishments._**


	11. Chapter 11

**My most sincere apologies for the horribly long span of time since I last updated.**

 **Thank you to all who have continued reading this story - I'm going to try and update more regularly, though life has an annoying habit of getting in the way of my plans.**

 **No real triggers for this chapter.**

 _Present Day: Takes place just days after the battle in Sokovia._

 _Location: Avengers HQ_

Clint stood rigidly against the pristine stone wall circling the entrance to the roof. Arms crossed in defiance - though his object of defiance remained invisible to the naked eye - he stared coldly out across the pristine lawn leading to the new Avengers base. Down below, the soft undertones of light-hearted conversation floated to his technologically-enhanced ears by a gentle wind. If he had been paying attention to sounds, Thor's boisterous laugh surely would have made him grimace at its volume even without his hearing aids.

In a sudden flash of intensely bright light, Thor was plucked from Earth's surface in a hasty return to Asgard.

At once, Clint felt the breeze grow colder. No more laughter could be heard from below as Clint envisioned the most intense staring match between Stark and Captain America as they both attempted to hide their displeasure behind thin masks of smiles and friendship.

Neither of them would ever last long in a world of well-constructed lies, stealthy action, and long-awaited revenge.

Patience is a virtue that few possess quite like a hunter.

Though their personalities often clashed over the smallest of details, Tony Stark and Steve Rogers were both men born in war, strengthened by their victories and hardened by their defeats. If only they could look past each other's stubborn stance of holding the higher ground.

The disappointment in finding that no man - no matter how noble or brilliant - would ever truly belong in the world of the common man, was not the aggravation that had driven him to the roof. He had lost all hope in humanity too long ago for petty squabbles to cause him much distress now.

No, the moment that had driven him to abandon his so-called "team" to their trivial bonding sessions was born more out of an ethical dilemma.

Experience had taught him that life consisted of only what was right and what was wrong; every gray area was merely a human invention meant to excuse ones' actions.

But where did strict laws of right and wrong leave a criminal like him? Every time he did what was generally accepted as "right," it seemed he found himself on the losing side with no hope of turning the tide. Yet, when he did what was normally seen as "wrong," people still turned against him. So what was the point in doing what was "right"?

No example came quicker to his mind than the unforeseen death of Pietro. The plane's guns had been squarely aimed at Clint, and at Clint alone. Why in the hell would a super-powered boy get in the way and have the nerve to die?

More importantly, why hadn't Clint been faster at moving? He had shoved aside his instincts for a half second as something primal and paternal had taken over. And that half second had cost more than he would have desired. Not only was a young man now dead, not only did the Avengers have to live with the boy's twin sister constantly reminding them by her presence of Clint's failure, but now Clint had substantial reason to doubt his own abilities.

Not to say Clint blamed the boy, he had acted with pure intent, but his sacrifice should never have been necessary.

"Emotion is a weakness," the well-rehearsed words slid from Clint's tongue as easily as they had when he was a child. Once, he had pretended to believe them, as it was expected to believe without question. Then, when he had grown older, he had realized both the beauty and strength in emotion. Now, however, he was being forced to change his mindset once again.

Maybe not all emotion was a distraction, but emotion had its place. And the battlefield was no place to be feeling. The battlefield was for stealth, precise kills, and personal survival. If civilians died in the process of defending a larger portion of the population, well, that was acceptable. Not everyone could be saved.

However, if civilian lives meant so little, why bother fighting the opposing forces in the first place? To prove your own power? For the chance of greater honor? For the fleeting feeling of elation running through one's veins at watching the enemy soldiers wallow in their own blood?

What was the real purpose of defending anything if those who should be protected were seen as invaluable?

The world was too harsh a place for the weak to survive, yet weak men still popped up everywhere, spreading their feeble seed and carelessly watching it grow into a flesh-eating cancer.

In the end, which was worse: A man too cowardly to fight for the survival of the human race, or a man too blinded by selfish motives to act on others' behalf? Possibly, the man was one and the same. Too scared to stand and fight when war came to his doorstep, yet vain enough to belief himself a hero.

Why were men ever brave? Because they did not want to bare the title of a coward. Cowards - in times past - had been executed without bias.

Cowards who saw themselves as heroes needed to be taught a lesson – one that would likely end in their death. Clint released the air he had been constricting in his lungs; what he wouldn't give to see someone take down Tony Stark.

The man had no honor: He believed himself a just man, a smart man, a man on which all the weight of the world rested. Except that the world was crumbling in the hands of such an inept narcissist. The true danger lay in Stark's complete lack of ability to see past his own self, his own goals and desires. And what had that gotten the world?

Ultron.

The death of hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent civilians at the hand of a crazy robot who shared his maker's darkest wishes.

But Clint wasn't truly surprised by their death. In fact, he would have expected nothing less since Stark was involved. After all, when was the last time death hadn't followed anything that man built?

Even Wanda's parents had been murdered by Stark's own missiles.

Every time Stark put on that metal suit full of dangerous missiles and flashy lasers, people died. Stark wasn't necessarily to blame for directly killing these innocents, but they had perished as a result of Stark's lack of planning and his complete disregard in trusting anyone besides himself to save the world.

But the world only really needed to be saved from Tony Stark. If ever the world was prepared to turn against him, Clint would make damned sure an arrow imbedded itself in that moron's thick skull.

"I thought you were heading home," Natasha sat gently down on the couch next to Clint, balancing two plates heaped full of scrambled eggs and bacon. Passing off one of the plates to Clint, she began shoveling the breakfast into her mouth.

Sighing softly, he placed the plate onto the glass coffee table near his knee. "Well, I didn't want to miss the funeral…"

Peering sideways at him, Natasha spoke between bites of food, "The funeral was three days ago."

"And it was beautiful," a quiet voice added. Clint wasn't surprised to see Wanda hanging out hesitantly in the doorway to the kitchen - it seemed she didn't exactly know where she fit in either.

 _At least she_ _'_ _s appreciated for her talents,_ Clint mused. There was no way that the Avengers were going to allow someone with magical mind-bending powers to walk away of her own freewill. Back at SHIELD, the girl would have been detained long ago, but she wouldn't even know the true extent of her situation until it was too late for her to escape. However, it seemed that Captain America had no issue with letting both her and that robot…thing join the team.

 _Hm, yet not one person has a problem letting me leave._

Clint supposed it was a new world now, a world of flying magical-stone people and super-powered individuals. What use did anyone have for an ex-assassin with a bow?

Yet, he wasn't surprised that Natasha had found a way to still be useful in a new modern age, she had a way of worming her way into situations that did not pertain to her: A survival instinct, some would call it. Though Clint saw it more as her finally finding a place where she felt comfortable enough to show off her true skills without fear of rejection.

 _Not everyone has that option. If anyone actually knew_ _…_ Clint mentally shook away his train of thought, he couldn't go there. Not with the possibility that one of the New Avengers could somehow read minds.

He'd be royally screwed if anyone ever got **that** power.

Avoiding the girl's intrusion into a morning that was just supposed to include himself and Natasha, he pointedly turned his gaze to the television screen which had just begun the 7:00 o'clock news. _Since when does anyone else get up this early?_ Back in the Tower, the only other person who had ever been awake before 9:00am had been Steve Rogers, but he was only around for a few minutes before he went out running.

The news was showing nothing new: war, famine, death, prostitution, murder, child soldiers-

"Sheesh, what will they come up with next?" Stark plopped himself down in an over-sized armchair and carelessly threw his feet up on the glass tabletop, "Child fighters - like there aren't enough people dying already."

Clint watched Natasha's eyes narrow for the briefest of seconds before she focused once more on her rapidly-emptying plate.

"For someone who claims to be a genius, you're remarkably stupid," Clint spat out as he stood quickly from the couch; he just barely pushed down the instinct to shove one of his thigh daggers directly through Stark's neck, just to see if he would still be able to spew out arrogant words.

Turning toward the doorway, he didn't wait for Stark to reply before he began stalking out of the room.

No one stopped him or even tried to call him back.

Emptying his second quiver-full of arrows into the same tree might not have been the best of plans, but he was far too frustrated to take the time to stop shooting and pluck his arrows out of the damaged trunk. Each time the arrow released, he envisioned the metal tip embedding itself deeper and deeper into the iron head that controlled corrupt society. At least when SHIELD existed, there was a certain order to his life.

After Tony and Steve had gone back inside to help train the new recruits, he had slipped off the roof and headed for the woods – far enough away from prying eyes at the compound. It unnerved him when the team wanted to watch him shoot – shooting was supposed to be a way for him to relieve stress, not have it build.

"What, exactly, did that poor tree ever do to you?" The mocking tone tore his focus from target practice. Slick with blood from his cut hand, the notched arrow slid slightly from its perch on the bowstring.

Ignoring the aching pain in his bare hands, Clint refocused his aim in an instant, changing his target to the idle man standing a mere fifty feet away. "Why are you here?" He growled.

The man shrugged slightly but made no move to get out of the arrow's pathway, "I told you before, we're bringing you back in. You aren't needed in the field any longer."

Clint's eyes narrowed sharply; pulling the bowstring to its limits, he barely forced his hand not to release the arrow into the other man's head. "And I told you a long time ago that I don't work for you anymore."

Smirking slightly, the man stepped out from under the shade of the tree and placed himself within arm's reach of the arrow's tip. "Come on, Clint, if you were going to shoot me, you'd have done it already. Put that thing down before you hurt yourself." The man's voice, though it would have sounded soft and gentle to any passerby, held only years of lies and betrayal to Clint. "Standing up to me isn't going to make me any more convinced to forgive you for all the sins you've committed."

Clint refused to flinch; instead, he stared defiantly at the man who used to be the only important person in his life, the only one worth keeping alive. Of course, he should have realized that staring his brother down would never make him leave: Barney liked to be challenged. "You want to talk about sins?" disbelief flooded Clint's voice, "After everything you did to- you think you can judge me?"

At this close proximity, not even an amateur archer could have missed shooting Barney through the heart. But when Clint bent his arm ever so slightly to release the arrow, he found his hand refused to let go.

Noticing Clint's struggle, Barney laughed – a short barking sound – "Having trouble, little brother? That's not surprising…You always did require some – motivation." Staring him straight in the eye and placing a gloved hand around the tip of the arrow, Barney snapped the shaft in half. "We have a deal, remember? I don't kill you and you…" He shrugged, a look of mock contemplation growing on his face as he absent-mindedly twirled the arrow tip between his fingers. "What was the other half of our deal again, Clint?"

Inwardly, Clint couldn't help but flinch at the condescending manner in which his name was spoken – much like how one would speak to a pet right before it was punished for behaving poorly. Once-buried memories of those punishments threatened to break through the calm exterior he was desperately trying to keep in place. Barney had always been creative when it came to fitting the punishment to the crime, especially when Clint had been his target – which had been the majority of the time as Barney found most others beyond the scope of his "help".

The implications of some of the more creative punishments Clint hadn't fully understood until SHIELD had forced him to pass his psych evaluations. Of course, SHIELD had never become aware of how large of an impact his brother actually had on Clint's psyche. Only after an ill-timed panic attack in the field which almost got him and his team killed had Coulson demanded answers. If it had been anyone else, Clint would have fed him the story of how Barney had found Clint eavesdropping on a heist meeting back in their carnival days, stabbed him, and left him for dead in a ditch. But Coulson never really bought the whole "carnival" bit anyway so part of the truth had been forced to the surface. Clint never really understood why Coulson had put the carnival story into his file instead of the truth – it went against the rigid code of honor that Clint associated with his handler.

"I'm not playing this game," Clint bit out, pulling the broken shaft from its perch – his bow would be useless in close combat, anyway.

"You think this is a game?" Barney's hand snapped closed around the arrow tip; his blood stained the earth as it fell from the open wound. "I take your betrayal rather too personally for this to be a game."

With only a few feet between them, Clint was all too aware of his brother's fighting abilities to be unconcerned that the only visible weapon he possessed was the tip he had broken off of Clint's arrow. "I didn't betray you."

All mock consideration fled from Barney's face. The sickening grin that took its place turned Clint's stomach and he glanced away before he realized that breaking eye-contact did not send much of a message of strength. "Failing to accept responsibility for your actions, Clint? I thought I had trained you better." Grin still in place, Barney's voice took on a more threatening tone, "Then again, I didn't expect you to break our deal. Truly, I thought it was pretty fair, all things considered."

"Fair?" Clint's right hand tightened around the curve of his bow, "I was basically your slave."

"Now, now, that's a bit dramatic. Besides, by the time we struck our deal, you had already run off once. Of course," his hand opened, revealing the bloodstained arrow tip lying in his palm, "you turned yourself in – I didn't force you to come back."

Clint refused to answer. He still was not quite sure why he had gone back to Barney after narrowly escaping the first time, though he felt certain the SHIELD psychologists would have had a field-day dissecting their relationship, if he had ever mentioned it.

"It was generous of me not to kill you when you came crawling back – after all, you had been branded a traitor and should have been executed like one."

"…and all I had to do was follow every order you felt like dishing out." Clint longed to drop his bow and reach for the knife sheathed on his left hip, but he doubted his reflexes were fast enough at the moment to avoid whatever offensive strike Barney had planned. Sokovia had taken a lot more out of him then he realized. "Because not dying is worth forsaking all morals."

"Clearly you've been spending too much time considering philosophy if you're suddenly concerned with morality." An emotion that on others would be considered pity glanced across Barney's face, "No wonder you're confused. After all the people who have died by your hand, you start trying to, what, justify your actions by attempting to ground them in the basis of morality? That's just…pathetic."

Clint opened his mouth to argue but hesitated when Barney's hand raised in preparation to throw the arrow tip.

Except, no attack came.

A pleased smile crossed Barney's face, "Hm, that still works? Good to see some of that training paid off; I did spend so much of my time bettering you, after all." He sighed deeply, as if pained, and stepped a few feet closer; Clint refused to budge. "You followed my orders because you needed orders to follow. But you killed, not because I told you to or because you were forced, but because you enjoyed the rush it brought. …Still do, if the way you're struggling not to attack me is any indication." Barney gestured with his injured hand to the bow in Clint's hand, "Your hand is shaking; you only lose control like that when you're trying not to kill someone."

Clint didn't have to glance down to know that Barney was telling the truth, though he did try to consciously still his body.

"You see, I know you, Clint. I know you a hell of a lot better than your quaint little team ever will." Resolutely, Clint raised his eyes from Barney's weapon to look him in eye; "You're a killer," Barney continued, "and I'm sure your team of heroes wouldn't appreciate knowing that you're just a fraud pretending to be one of them because it's easier than accepting the fact that you cannot go two days without killing."

"I've gone much longer than that."

"And it drives you crazy, doesn't it? Being a killer is precisely why you were born, it's what you were trained to do; there's really no use fighting against natural inclinations."

Clint desperately wanted to run: Barney had an unparalleled knack for getting under his skin. Thinking it through, not even Loki had been able to outmatch Barney when it came to messing with Clint's head. Loki had really only brought out the more primal parts of Clint, all the while managing to shut off his inhibitions. With Barney, Clint had no fighting chance – every single word out of his mouth always poked and prodded at whatever aspect of Clint's personality was being called into question until Clint felt that the only reasonable course of action was to do whatever Barney said. How could it be wrong if what Barney said lined up exactly with what Clint thought?

Still a way's off, Clint heard the unmistakable crunch of branches snapping underfoot – not Natasha then, but someone was coming to find him.

"Well then," Barney stepped backward, no doubt having also heard the intruder approaching, "I'll leave you to deliberate – it would appear that you have some choices to make."

Clint blinked in disbelief, "Choices? I'm not coming-"

A louder snap of twigs from being had him turning around before he considered that it would leave him vulnerable to attack from behind. "Clint, you out here?" By Steve's calm reaction upon walking into the clearing, Clint presumed Barney had taken off. "Is someone with you? I thought I heard you talking – "

"No," Clint cut him off, not wanting to explain, "You probably just heard me talking to myself."

He knew from the frown on Steve's face that his hasty excuse hadn't been bought, but Clint was too on edge to bother trying to come up with a reason other than "my psycho brother paid me a visit and wants me to go back into the family business". Of course, that explanation would then pose the question of what precisely the "family business" was, and that was a question Clint was certainly never going to answer.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello, everyone.**

 **I apologize for being so tardy in updating...Life has been insane lately, though I know none of you are really interested in hearing the stresses of my life so I won't go into detail.**

 **To those of you who have favorited, followed, reviewed, or just read this fic so far: THANK YOU!**

 **Since it has been so long since my last update, I would greatly appreciate it if you could leave a review letting me know if I should continue or not. I would like to finish up this story since I've come so far from the beginning, but I'm not positive anyone else is interested in reading any future chapters.**

 **For now, enjoy!**

The shadows were steadily lengthening by the time Clint and Steve arrived back at the new Avengers headquarters. Neither man had spoken on the two mile trek back: Clint had no desire to talk about anything and Steve was too polite to push the issue, even though he continued shooting concerned glances Clint's way when he didn't think the other man would notice.

The compound was unusually quiet. A few lights were visible from the front of the building, though those just belonged to the common areas. _Great,_ Clint groaned inwardly, _another bonding session. How am I going to get out of this one?_ He had no intention of listening to a bunch of adults share random tidbits about their lives that they naively counted as having the ability to mysteriously connect them to another individual. As he had once told Coulson, "Sharing is stupid". Of course, that had done nothing except earn him a hard look, followed by the snide comment, "You do realize you just shared your opinion". Clint had proceeded to give his handler the silent treatment for a week outside of when he was forced to answer, just so Coulson didn't get any ideas about him "opening up".

Of course, then The Event took place and he actually shared. Somewhat.

Clint stopped in his tracks before the entrance, not yet ready to face anyone else. "You go in, Cap" he said in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice, "I'm going to enjoy the fresh air a bit longer."

Steve opened his mouth to respond and then thought better of it.

The door swung shut with a soft thud.

Turning his back on the compound, Clint tried to take in the beauty of the still night but was unable to force his thought away from the events of the day. Lost in thought, he didn't hear the door open behind him a few moments later, though he did sense the person standing warily behind him.

"I'm surprised you didn't insist on coming to find me yourself, Nat." Frustration coated his words, though he wasn't completely certain who he was most annoyed with.

"I didn't think it was likely you would be lying dead somewhere," she circled around to face him, having always preferred eye-contact when speaking. "Besides, Steve offered." Giving him a quick onceover to confirm her assumption that he was, in fact, not dying, she frowned upon seeing the partially-dried blood on his arm. Stepping closer, she stared him down for a moment, "You look like shit. What happened?" She had her arms crossed in that defensive posture of hers that let him know they were about to engage in a stubborn battle of wills if he refused to cave and answer her question.

But answering was much too close to confiding and he was incapable of that, at the moment anyway. "Nothing; I'm fine."

Her eyes narrowed at the blatant lie. "What happened to your arrow?" She questioned next, pointing to the broken shaft that Clint had forgotten he was still holding.

"It cracked in the tree," he responded dryly.

"Bullshit." Natasha pulled the arrow from his hand and held it in front of face, "Arrows don't break like that upon impact." Lowering the arrow, she stared him straight in the eyes, trying to find her answers there. "Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not." It was a transparent lie and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, but he was too tired to come up with a better-crafted argument.

"Since when do you lie to me, Barton?" The coldness in her voice normally would have him retracting earlier lies and spilling whatever was on his mind.

Tonight, that was not an option."Since what I'm thinking about has nothing to do with you." Deflective, sure; effective, not hardly.

"We're a team, so everything you think has something to do with me," she retorted, somehow managing to convey that she both wanted to force him to explain and respect his privacy all at once.

Team. The word set his teeth on edge. "Are we?" he asked accusingly, "Are we a team? Because lately you've been on everyone's side but mine."

All prior visible anger vanished from her body: muscles relaxed and arms fell to her sides. Natasha had an eerie way of being calm that often escalated matters further rather than provide any sort of comfort, so Clint was relatively certain he was about to get his ass kicked. "When have I ever not been loyal to you?"

"I didn't say you weren't being loyal, I just meant –" Happening to look down, Clint noticed her hand tighten slightly around the arrow. _Right,_ he thought, _rhetorical question. No need to answer. Except…_ Ignoring his better judgment that should have prompted him to remain silent under her cold glare, Clint decided he at least owed her a partial truth – even if opening up was only a measure of self-preservation and a way to steer her away from the larger issues he was facing. "What I meant –" he hesitated as her jaw tensed. _Now or never; if you don't tell her something, she'll just keep digging until she uncovers what's actually going on._

"We're a team: You and me and Coulson. That's it; we don't need anyone else. It just seems like, now that you have more people to depend on, you don't really need me as much…" _Well, no one needs me, really, but that's going too far down the "sharing" road._

As soon as the words left his mouth, he half expected Natasha to stab him with his own arrow in some sort of poetic justice for speaking over her. The other half of him knew her well enough to know that she would refrain from stabbing him while he was actually willing to talk about Coulson.

Perhaps using their dead mentor as an escape route to get away from deeper topics was a bit low but, to be fair, he and Natasha had never really spoken much about Coulson's untimely death. _Besides,_ he thought grimly, _it's not like talking about him will make me any less complicit in his death, and it can't really make me feel more guilty so there's not too much harm in bringing it up._

Uncharacteristically, Natasha broke eye contact. "Clint," with the enhanced hearing aids Stark had made, Clint was able to pick up on the slight switch in tone from calmly angry to unnaturally soft. "Clint – he's dead. You do know that, right?"

 _What the hell?_ Confused, he only nodded in response. "The way you were referring to him in the present tense, I just – had to be sure you hadn't forgotten."

 _I'm incapable of forgetting. It's my fault._ "I know," he wasn't positive the words actually held sound as his brain was distracted trying to sort through her words. _Did I really slip up that badly? But – no, she wouldn't look so concerned if I hadn't. Great, now she's actually worried._

Stepping closer, she tentatively rested her empty hand on his shoulder, "He wouldn't want you to blame yourself; it's not-"

"Don't." Pulling back, he stepped backwards – farther from any sense of comfort, knowing he was stumbling back into dangerous mental territory. Knowing better than to push for a more positive reaction, Natasha stayed where she was and tried not to be too concerned by the haunted expression written plainly – only to her eyes – on her partner's face.

Desiring an escape that wouldn't prove to make matters worse, Clint gestured back to the compound, "Maybe you should go back in; I'm sure the team is wondering where you disappeared to." Uncertainty clouded her eyes. "I can stay, Clint, you don't have to be alone."

"It's fine; go ahead. I'm just going to walk around some more." _Does saying "I'm fine" ever convince anyone?_

Head tilted slightly to the left, she observed the fidgeting of his hands – one of his tells, a nervous habit that he had never been able to fully control. "Just don't go too far. I don't want to have to walk five miles in the dark to find you later." 'Five miles.' He caught the reference to their first mission in Russia after she had decided that SHIELD wasn't a prison and she could trust him, at least as far as she trusted anyone then. They had gotten separated after a hit went south and she had had to trudge through five miles of Russian winter conditions in hostile territory to extract him from his compromised perch.

Watching her retreating form, one thought continuously played through his mind: Coulson would have known not to walk away; he would have caught the signs of Clint's self-destructive nature and would have stayed and forced Clint to give voice to his frustrations: Just like he did with The Event.

 _Sixteen Years Ago_

 _Location: SHIELD HQ_

Fragments of memory slipped past his normally concrete mental defenses. Miniscule cracks formed along the edges, threatening to bring the entire structure crumbling down in a chaotic mess of lies and betrayal.

Thick smoke obscured his vision; the flickering shades of red from the raging fire seared the image of destruction permanently into his mind. Screams of anguish from those trapped inside the small, wooden house vanished upon reaching his deafened ears. No hint of mirth graced his brother's features, but only a prideful glow that grew in intensity with the power of the fire he had started. Sparks burned his skin, leaving angry red marks across his bare arms.

Curiously, he noticed that he felt no sympathy for those trapped inside, whose flesh was melting away from their bones right before their eyes.

A sense of relief flooded him: At least Barney had woken him before starting the fire - he would have hated to be burned alive along with their parents.

Pinpricks of blue starlight filtered in through the uncovered windows. Icicles hung loosely onto the wooden rafters high above; Clint couldn't help but briefly wonder how getting impaled with one might feel. The ice was certainly sharp enough to cut through skin and muscle, but how different would the cold ice feel melting inside his body even as his warm blood poured from him than the chill of steel?

His momentary curiosity was cut short by a sudden explosion of pain on the right side of his face. Stunned from the blow of the quarterstaff, his counter-swing missed it's mark by a few feet. Still, he managed to keep his body from lurching forward due to the force of his swing by planting his feet as firmly as possible on the slick, stone floor.

The memory sped through the next series of blows. Clint, while faster, had only managed to land a couple of minor hits on Barney. The small bruises on Barney's left wrist and side contrasted sharply with his own dislocated jaw and fractured nose, not to mention the blossom of bruises on the left side of his torso: He always had favored protecting his dominant side for fear something might injure his right hand - after all, a sniper without the use of his dominant hand was rather useless.

Ignoring the blood flowing thickly from his nose, Clint began to grow desperate. His attacks grew less precise, leaving his defenses lacking.

There was no telling what sort of pain Barney would next invent as punishment for Clint's distraction, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that Barney would never dare cause permanent damage -at least not damage that would lessen Clint's usefulness. Though Clint still debated his brother's reasoning for piercing his eardrums. But, as Barney was fond of saying: "Distractions vary from person to person. You were too distracted by what you heard so I eliminated the issue. Weapons need to be fine-tuned, at times."

Barney could sound as cold and clinical as he wanted, but Clint knew he wasn't imagining the sadistic look in Barney's eyes whenever an opportunity for bloodshed presented itself. Clint was his favorite guinea pig, after all. And nothing could ever stop Barney -

...The sudden glint of light bouncing off the barrel of a gun. _Wait, what?_

All at once, present reality flooded his senses: Harsh white, fluorescent light bored into his eyes; a canopocy of sounds ranging from the mildly annoying buzz of computers to the more threatening shouts of surprise crackled loudly through his hearing aids.

Instinctively, he moved to pull out the hunting knife he kept strapped to his thigh - except… Numb, he stared down at his right hand which already gripped the handle of the knife - the very knife that he had, at some point, rammed through the oak conference table, carving an extremely noticeable slit through the entire depth of the table. _The Director's not going to be happy that I just murdered his favorite table. But,_ he inspected the knife quizzically, _must not have been solid oak because, last time I checked, I wasn't capable of stabbing all the way through thick wood._

"Damn it, Sitwell, lower your gun!" _Woah, Coulson doesn't normally cuss what - ah, yeah, I guess I probably was about to kill somebody...on "accident."_

"What the hell is going on in here?" Director Fury growled from the doorway. Unambiguously, Clint moved slightly to the left in a lame attempt to block the injured table from the Director's line of sight. He moved too slowly. "Who murdered the conference table?" Fury bellowed out.

Quickly shoving his hands into his jacket pockets Clint, in a dire effort not to look guilty - though he knew all of the signs, including Sitwell's gun, pointed directly at him - was determined to stare blankly at the wall in front of him.

Unfortunately, when he had stepped to the side to cover up his brutal assassination of 150-year old oak, he had misjudged everyone's placement in the room. Instead of a blank, white wall, he ended up meeting the poorly-concealed concerned gaze of his handler. Embarrassed, Clint quickly averted his eyes and was startled to see the gun Coulson had raised. A spark of panic flooded his mind. Adrenaline pumped through his blood; his heart beat faster even as air became trapped in his lungs. His old flight instinct kicked into overdrive and he desperately calculated his chances of making it out the door alive, not even bothering to hope for making it out of the building. Knowing Coulson's reflexes and his impeccable, short-range aim, Clint figured he didn't have much of a chance.

Of course, that didn't mean he was just going to stand by and let himself be killed by -

 _Wait,_ Clint forced his brain to focus on the facts of what he was seeing, _maybe I'm not about to die._ Looking closer, Clint realized that his handler's gun was actually pointing, not at him, but at Sitwell. _Well that's surprising._

Shocked and confused, Clint couldn't stop the dumbfounded look that crossed his face. _Why wouldn't he be aiming at me? I could have accidently killed half the people in this room before I snapped out of...whatever the hell just happened._

"That's it!" Fury yelled out, "Everyone put their guns away now; no one is dying in here until I figure out what the hell happened." _...And then you're going to kill someone? ...Oh, damn, that someone is me._

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint could see Sitwell hesitantly complying. If the forlorn look on his face was anything to go by, Clint figured Sitwell was annoyed that his excuse to finally get rid of Clint had been foiled.

Only after Sitwell had holstered his gun did Coulson lower his own.

Scowling with his one good eye, Director Fury peered around the room. "Anyone going to confess or do I have to break some of my own rules and drag you all down to interrogation? Who killed my table?" _Seriously? All of this drama over a table?_

Clint, who still had yet to turn around to properly face the Director, made the mistake of glancing back towards his handler. Coulson, knowing full well how much Clint despised all sorts of confrontation, inclined his head slightly towards the Director: _"Tell him,_ " he mouthed, knowing Clint would be able to read his lips. _There's no getting out of this._

Turning around, Clint shoved his hands even deeper into his jacket pockets, hoping the stance made him appear less threatening. _This seems like a very bad idea._

Perhaps the Director wouldn't kill him. _No, you idiot, you are about to die. You've survived being stabbed, being shot, being tortured for days on end, and almost freezing to death. But this is how it all ends, over a fricken table._ "That would have been me, sir."

If looks could kill, Fury's wrathful glare would have burnt Clint to cinders. "This table has been in my family for generations: My grandfather's father crafted it out of the finest oak trees in Northern Canada over a hundred years ago! What the hell could have possessed you to maim it?"

 _That table has a more interested family tree than I do. ...Heh, "tree"._ Uncomfortable with all of the attention, Clint did his best to ignore the other twelve people in the room who were scrutinizing his every twitch and focus solely on not saying anything sarcastic to the Director. "To be fair, sir, the table did try to kill me first." _...You can't go more than five minutes without making a joke that could get you killed, can you? Idiot._

Glancing behind Director Fury, Clint could see Sitwell grinned in satisfaction at Clint's impending doom. "Barton, I've put up with a ton of shit from you, but this," he pointed angrily to the table, "has taken it too far." _Again, am I the only one who thinks it's insane to care this much about a table?_

The Director opened his mouth to pronounce his final judgment but, before the words had a chance to leave his mouth, a spindly, timid looking man crept into the room. "Excuse me," squeezing between two thick-bodied senior agents who served as Director Fury's private guard, the scientist stopped close behind the Director. Shoving his bulky glasses farther up his nose, the man continued, seemingly unaware of the Director's rising blood pressure. "Sir, you insisted on seeing the updated plans for the new surveillance equipment before the engineers began the testing stages. They just finished the plans and are eager to begin, so your immediate presence would be appreciated." _Okay,_ Clint conceded, _maybe scientist man isn't that timid._

An exasperated sigh slipped from the Director. "Inform the engineering department that I will be down shortly." With a quick nod, the scientist calmly shoved past the agents stationed at the door. "And as for you," Director Fury turned his cold stare back onto Clint. _Keep your mouth shut; do not say anything inflammatory. He already wants to murder you, but saying anything else could make him prolong your suffering. For the sake of personal survival, do. NOT. speak._ Normally, even his most well-meaning internal pep talk would not have succeeded in keeping him silent, but the feeling of Coulson's eyes boring into the back of his head managed to do the trick. "Fix whatever the hell is going on in that brain of yours." Stalking out of the room, the Director managed to appear more murderous than when he had first entered.

 _...Hey, I'm not dead._ Before the elation of somehow making it out of a heated confrontation with the Director alive could fully compute in his mind, a strong hand gripped his elbow as a reminder that he had not yet escaped all consequences of his coldblooded and completely-accidental murder. "My office. Now." The shooting range sounded much more appealing in that moment, but Coulson's flat tone left no room for argument.

Pointedly doing his best to ignore the ticked-off looks of the other agents, he allowed Coulson to lead him out of the room. At least if he wasn't escaping the situation's repercussions entirely, he wasn't being forced to Psych straightaway.

"It was just a table," he muttered softly, refusing to meet his handler's eyes as the door to Coulson's office closed behind them with a thud. _Is this what being sent to the principal's office feels like?_

"I don't give a damn about the table, Barton." _Again with the cursing, sir. It doesn't sound right when you say it._ Clint bit back the words through force of will alone, knowing calling Coulson out on his word choice during the beginning of what was sure to be a stern lecture would be terribly unwise. "What I do care about is why you pulled a knife out during a debriefing." _Coulson looking tired before the lecture begins is never a good sign...for me._

"I really don't know what to tell you, sir. I just felt like stabbing something and the table seemed like a better choice than a person." He tried to go for charmingly innocent though, if the thin frown on Coulson's face was anything to go by, the words were not nearly as flippant as Clint had intended.

His hands itched for a weapon to hold. Just something to toy with until the lecture was over. Under Coulson's scrutinizing gaze, he was fully aware that his right hand had begun twitching again. _Damn tell._ Forcibly making an effort to calm his hand would only appear more suspicious, however, so he regrettably continued to allow his hand to twitch, wishing desperately for something, anything to-

His hand shot up reflexively as a small, thin object flew at him. _A pen?_ "Play with that and quit making me nervous, Barton. I might not care about the Director's table, but my desk is an antique so I'd rather you not stab it, as well."

A soft laugh escaped his lips before he could draw the breath back in, "Is my tell really that obvious, sir?"

Sitting down gracefully in a suit certainly couldn't have been easy, but Coulson performed the feat easily enough. _Still, he won't stop frowning. Did I do something else besides stab a table?_

Knowing Clint would rather pace, Coulson didn't even bother offering him a chair. "Do you remember what we were in the middle of discussing in the meeting, Agent Barton?"

 _Right to the point._ Twirling the pen quickly between his fingers, Clint tried to think back. "We had just finished going over the latest intel reports from the agents SHIELD has stationed in the White House." He paused to readjust the pen spinning around his fingers, "Still not sure why I was in the meeting - it's not like the Director was going to order any of his agents to be taken out."

"We've been over this, Agent Barton, you were there to learn." Coulson's exasperated tone as a reaction to Clint's momentary deflection did not go unnoticed, "What happened next?"

"Agent Sitwell was scrolling through recent surveillance photos and…"

"And what?" Coulson prompted lightly.

The pen froze in Clint's hand as the memory of what he had seen in the background of one of the photos came back to him. More precisely, who he had seen.

 _Hydra._

 _Barney._

 _Oh damn, I'm screwed._

Fear blossomed in his chest, burning away all thoughts of the relative safety he had been living in during the past few years. "And nothing, sir." He choked out. "I got bored looking at all of the pictures and felt like stabbing something." _Pick a lie and stick to it, no matter what._

"I don't believe that for a second." Absentmindedly reaching up to check the calibration on his hearing aids gave Clint a few precious seconds of time to think how best to respond.

The pen was still gripped tightly in his right hand. Now, though, Clint no longer felt the desire to simply spin it as fast as could in order to give his hands something to do. No, now he wanted to shove it as hard as he could through his brother's eye. _Knew he would find me. There are only so many places to run before he catches up._

The thinly-veiled anger did not slip off Clint's face before Coulson saw it. "Who did you see?"

"No one," he answered tightly. _Pick a lie and stick to it._ "I was just bored."

For a long moment, Coulson didn't respond. The silence stretched between them, doing nothing to lessen the battling feelings of fear and anger warring within Clint. Finally, the silence grew too deafening, even for Clint, and he stepped back towards the door. "If I'm not actually in trouble, sir, I think I'll go-"

Clint froze when he saw a rare glimpse of open emotion pass across his handler's normally expressionless face: Understanding. Whatever realization Coulson had suddenly come to scared the hell out of Clint. _If he knows, I'll rot in some offshore SHIELD prison for the rest of my life. ...But, no, he can't know. Not that. None of them do. The lot of them are still lurking in the shadows, waiting for the giant, green kill light._

"You have a choice, Clint," he flinched inwardly at Coulson's use of his first name, "you can either walk out that door, forcing me to refer you to Psych, or you can sit down and stop lying to me." _That's coldhearted. You know I hate those bastards down in Psych._

 _Pick a lie and -_ "My brother." _...and apparently throw that lie right out the freaking window._ "That's who I saw in the pictures."

Following orders and sitting down in the chair closest to the door, Clint impatiently waited for Coulson to say or do anything. "And that's why you had a panic attack." It wasn't a question, but Clint was still thrown.

"No," he stammered out, "that wasn't a panic attack. I," he unnecessarily pointed to himself, "don't get panic attacks. Never have, never will."

"Considering you saw a photo of your brother and proceeded to stab an innocent table, I believe congratulations are in order," Coulson smirked slightly, "because you did, in fact, panic." Turning serious, Coulson regarded him closely, "This brother of yours, am I right in assuming it's the same one who tried to kill you" _Which time? There have been so many…_ "right before you left the circus?" _Oh yeah, THAT lie._

 _Technically, he did try to kill me, so it's not a complete lie._ "Yes." _Damn it, Barney, why can't you just leave me alone?_

"Any idea why he would be attending a conference of DC's most powerful political members?"

Without hesitating, Clint responded, "No, sir. None at all." _If it's possible to drown in lies, then I would have died a long time ago._

Clint paused then, before his month could begin unraveling secrets and remembered his surprise when he had come out of what Coulson would likely always deem his "panic attack." So, in an effort to change the topic of conversation, he asked the question plaguing his mind. "Sir, why was your gun not pointed at me if you thought I was a danger to the agents in that conference room?" Undeterred by the change in topic, Coulson didn't wait a second before answering, "No one points a gun at my agents, Barton, not without going through me first." _If only honesty didn't come with such a steep price, sir. You'd be the first person I tell the truth to, if I thought there was a chance you wouldn't kill me for maybe, just maybe, in a different life with different circumstances, I could actually trust you._

 **Again, thank you for reading! Please leave a review if you want me to continue.**

 **I promise that I will do my best to update faster in the future, now that NANO is almost over.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you for all of the kind reviews!**

 **I promised that I would try to update more regularly and it seems like I kept my promise, for now.**

Present Day: Two weeks after the battle in Sokovia.

 _Location: Avengers HQ_

"I know we've taken out most of Hydra's prominent members, but I can't shake the feeling that we're missing something - something big." Due to Tony's insistence that he needed to finish updates to his latest Iron Man suit ASAP, the original team members - minus Thor - had met in Tony's lab to discuss their next actions.

There was far too much speculation going on for Clint's liking. "Why?" He bit out, not caring how cold his words sounded, "Unless you're planning on designing some more murder-bots, then we don't really have anything to worry about. Especially not Hydra." _At least, none of you have to worry about Hydra. Whereas I have a giant target on my back._

He glanced away as soon as Natasha's piercing gaze swung his way. _Don't read into this, Nat. I'm not dragging you down with me._

"No, I think Tony might be onto something." Steve spoke up from where he was leaning against one of Stark's multiple work tables. _Now you two are agreeing? Oh joy._ "If Hydra was as deeply embedded in every part of the government as we were told, it should be taking a lot longer to root out all of the traitors."

 _Why is it treason? Wouldn't it have been treason if those faithful to Hydra turned to SHIELD?_

"You think Hydra went down too easily." Natasha prodded. She had turned her attention back to the team at large, but Clint knew she was keeping a close eye on him.

Bruce, who was busy tinkering on some invention of his own off in the corner, spoke up softly, "If that were true, then why hasn't Hydra made a move?"

"Playing dead is a good way to remain undetected; people won't expect an attack if they think all of their enemies are either incarcerated or dead." Natasha chimed in.

"So, what," Tony glanced up his work on the helmet, "you think Hydra has a deeper sect locked away somewhere?"

"I just think it's odd…" Natasha mused. "Did you notice Hydra having any actual assassins in their ranks?" She asked, turning to Clint for answers.

"Sure," she continued, not waiting for Clint to give any response other than a slow shake of his head, "they had a lot of spies. But you can't conquer the planet with spies alone."

Acutely aware of how closely Natasha was watching his every move - though her reasoning had more to do with concern over his short temper lately than with the dilemmas actually battling in his mind - Clint desperately tried to keep his breathing even. The team's speculation was hitting far too close for comfort.

"We'll need concrete proof of a bigger plot before we can even consider going after Hydra again," Steve reminded them.

" _Concrete proof?"_ Clint thought to himself bemusedly, _There is no such thing as concrete proof where Hydra is concerned. You'd be dead the second you tried to find any. ...Although, the fact that you'd be dead does seem like a pretty good indication that the assassin theory isn't far off._

"Let me get this straight," Tony said, rather loudly, "you think that a lack of assassins is a bad thing?" Incredulous, his gaze shifted around the room, gauging his friends' reactions. "Am I the only one who remembers how many times those bastards almost killed us? And you're upset that they didn't try harder?"

 _If Hydra actually wanted you dead, Stark, Barney would have put a bullet in your brain a long time ago._ Clint's fingers shook slightly at his side. " _You can't even go two days without killing,"_ Barney's words from a week prior slipped through the cracks in his mental walls. _And you hate Tony Stark with a passion, so you might as well put an end to his miserable existence._ He grimaced slightly with the realization that his last thought hadn't been his brother's words, but his own.

Crossing his arms, Clint willed his hand to stop shaking. _Nat already knows I'm losing it...I should have more control than this._ It took all of his willpower to restrain himself from sliting Stark's throat then and there. _And if that wouldn't prove their assassin theory, I don't know what would._

His voice was hard as steel when his hate pushed itself out of his lips, "Instead of spending time bitching about that fact that Hydra's dead," _Such a lie; you know it's still very much alive._ "Maybe we should be figuring out a way to ensure that Stark doesn't end up committing mass murder again. Because, from where I'm standing, he's a bigger threat than Hydra ever was."

Tension filled the air at his aggressive words. Bruce turned his attention back on his project, no doubt fiddling with his tools in an attempt to remain calm. Steve's stance remained largely unchanged, though he straightened slightly at Clint's hostile tone. Natasha appeared calm to the casual observer, but Clint knew that his outburst had just confirmed whatever worries concerning his mental stability had taken root in her mind.

Tony huffed in response and - with far more dramatic flair than was necessary - threw the screwdriver in his hand down onto the table. The clash of metal on metal pinged loudly in Clint's enhanced hearing aids. "You're blaming me for what happened in Sokovia?"

"There's no one else to blame. You created Ultron. Everything that happened - all the people who were killed - is on you." _Included Wanda's brother; that's your fault, not mine._ Overwhelming anger filled his brain; black spots clouded his vision. Dimly, a small part of him wondered if this is how Bruce felt when the Hulk took over. _At least Bruce isn't responsible for what the Hulk does, not really. But me, I'm fully responsible for the things that happen when the darkness takes over._

His vision narrowed until the only thing he saw was Tony Stark. All the pain he had caused, all the lives he had ruined in his quest for power: Stark was the one pretending to be a hero.

In that moment, Clint remembered all of the ways in which he had fantasized killing Stark - there were well over one-hundred-and-fifty. Some deaths were quick and relatively painless: A knife through the jugular vein or a bullet in the head. Others were much more creative and gruesome: Slow-roasting him alive over a blazing fire; a thousand small cuts over his body among thin nerve clusters - his body wouldn't know it was failing until he bled out; skinning him alive would take time, but the screams of agony would be worth the effort.

Clint's personal favorite involved stringing him from the rafters and using his body as target practice.

 _Oh shit,_ the remaining sane portion of his brain interjected, _those all sound like things Barney would do._

That realization pulled him out of his thoughts of murder long enough for his brain to catch up to the fact that Natasha was standing in front of him, trying to get his attention. "You need to calm down," she was saying, over and over. At least, that's what he assumed she was saying - his ears felt blocked up and no sounds broke through.

 _Why?_ He wondered. A quick sweep of the room answered his question immediately. Everyone had shifted their positions in the room without him noticing. That slipup bothered him far more than his murderous thoughts.

Steve was standing a few feet away, appearing torn between confusion, anxiety, and anger, if the emotions warring on his face were anything to go by. His shield had been left upstairs, but Clint knew that Captain America was more than competent even without his beloved shield. He seemed ready to jump into battle - Clint figured he was the target - but Natasha's arm was flung out to serve as a barrier between Steve and Clint.

Bruce was standing in front of Tony, though his back was facing Clint. Clint couldn't hear what he was saying, but he looked agitated as he struggled to pull the knife out of Tony's shoulder.

 _Knife?_ Clint glanced down sharply at his thigh holster. _Oh shit. Guess I couldn't find a table to stab this time…_

He tried his best to look innocent as Natasha continuing glaring at him, but he couldn't get the emotions to form correctly on his face. The glib comment "It slipped" formed on his lips, but he suddenly couldn't remember why he felt it necessary to lie about him almost murdering Stark. "He's an ass." He shrugged, staring defiantly at Steve when he shot Clint a disapproving look, whether the look was based on Clint's crude language or on his seemingly sudden disregard for his teammates' lives was anyone's guess. "It's about damn time someone stabbed him.

Though," he muttered in a low tone, "I actually impaled him, not stabbed him. Slight difference."

"What the hell, birdbrain?" Stark rasped out in between deep, halting breaths.

Clint surged forward, second knife in hand. _Maybe I'll just gut him and be finished with it once and for all._

Before he had taken two steps forward, a hand wrapped around his wrist in a vice-like grip. "No!" Natasha barked out, "Stop this now, Clint!"

Knowing that struggling against Natasha's grip was futile and would likely end in a few broken bones in choice locations, none that would impede his ability to fight, but his body would hurt like hell. Feeling far too much like a petulant child, he allowed Natasha to drag him from the room, though he insisted on yelling obscenities on his way out: The aghast look on the Captain's face was priceless.

As soon as they had climbed back onto the upper floors and had gone far enough away from their teammates to keep from being overheard from anyone besides the ever-present AI, Natasha released Clint's wrist, though she stood squarely in front of the stairway exit as a detriment to him trying to escape. _You know there are twenty-seven other ways to get out of this room, right? ...Of course she does. She probably just figures I'm not stupid or desperate enough to attempt escape while she's glaring at me._

"Are you going to explain why you tried to kill Tony or do I have to keep pushing?" She demanded. Her eyes shone with anger. At that moment, it hardly mattered that Natasha was a good few inches shorter than Clint because her fiery temper - for which she was famous, though she hardly ever unleashed it on any of the other Avengers - easily made up for the height difference. _She's like an angry badger._ Clint thought almost fondly, before he remembered that her anger being directed at him was hazardous to his health.

"I didn't try to kill him," Clint responded, barely keeping his voice calm. "If I had intended to kill him, the knife would have struck his head, not his shoulder." Natasha's face remained impassive at his denial. "You know that I wouldn't have missed, had my intent been to kill the bastard." A slight twitch of her eyebrow and Clint knew he was playing a dangerous game, "I don't actually want him dead," He lied. _Loads of suffering before he dies: That's the plan. ...Though when this whole idea turned into a plan I actually intended on acting on, I have no freaking clue._

Noticing that Clint had wisely decided to stop talking, Natasha responded in a her "I'm-too-calm-so-you're-about-to-get-beaten-up" voice. "The fact that you impaled him at all is concerning." _Is she trying to lecture me? That's not how this works._ "What is going on with you, Clint?"

"Nothing," he responded, far too quickly.

"That's what you said two weeks ago. In light of what just happened, that's clearly not true." Her arms were crossed in front of her in a defensive posture, but Clint knew that if he tried to run again that she would react faster than he could. _Damn Sokovia. Why can't I have accelerated healing?_

"Fine." He admitted, "I'm just-" She raised an eyebrow, waiting impatiently for him to continue. _I'm just so screwed, Nat, and there's literally nothing you can do to help. I can't drag you into this - you'd hate me for it._ He sighed deeply as his brain sped through a list of lies he could try to spin. _Better a half-truth than a farfetched lie._ "I'm just tired, okay?"

"Tired?" She questioned, prompting him to continue.

 _Guess I should have known I wouldn't get away that easily._ "Yeah," Clint muttered softly, "I'm just tired of all of this," he gestured around at the room, "the forced team bonding, the aliens invading every two minutes, the psychotic, spoiled, rich brats who want to destroy everything - I'm just tired of all of it." _Everything was perfectly fine before Loki invaded; no one was the wiser and I didn't have to deal with all this shit. But now Coulson's gone, SHIELD's gone, the Avengers are a sham, and my sadistic brother is still after me, only now he actually knows where I am and is going to keep toying with me until he gets whatever the heck it is he wants._

Not for the first time, Clint desperately wished he could be honest with Natasha. The other Avengers would probably brand him a traitor and try to lock him up somewhere, but a thin light of hope remained in his heart that Natasha would understand.

But he couldn't involve her. Involving her meant putting a target on her back. A target that Barney would be sure to shoot at in a heartbeat.

"I don't know, Nat." His hands vibrated with untapped, restless energy. "Maybe," he paused, considering his next words. _Is there really a way out of this that doesn't make me look weak?_ "Maybe it's time I retire."

Anxiously, he waited for reaction. _Will she think I'm running away again?_ Natasha nodded slowly, not glancing away from his shaking form. "I think that's probably wise, if it's what you really want."

Indignation built in his throat; would she really let him leave that easily, after all they had been through? As always, Natasha seemed to know the emotions boiling inside of him. She held up one hand in a silent request for him not to start yelling. "You are an important part of our team," she said the words with such conviction that Clint almost felt bad for not believing her, "but you have a family that needs you and it's unfair of us to keep taking you away from them."

He bristled slightly when she mentioned his family - old habits were hard to shake. "So you think I should go?" Only through years of training was he able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"I don't want you to leave," she insisted, "but I think that you should, if you feel that you need to be done."

 _Just walk away? It shouldn't be this hard...And yet._ He thought of how happy Laura would be to have him at home; how relieved she would be, knowing that he wasn't out in the field almost getting himself killed on a regular basis. Cooper and Lila and the new baby could grow up with a father, instead of with stories of who he had been until he died saving the world from aliens. With his luck, he'd be killed by something stupid, like ants or robotic squirrels.

He could have mornings where he woke up and didn't immediately jump into survival mode. Pain and suffering didn't have to be his constant companions.

"I think I should." If Clint had been superstitious, maybe he would have noticed how those four words sealed his fate. "Do me a favor?" He asked, finally looking Natasha in the eyes. At her nod, he continued, "Don't tell the others until I'm gone." He offered no explanation for his request, but Natasha asked for none.

 _Just one more mission,_ he silently promised his wife, _I just have to finish one last thing._

 _Avengers HQ_

 _Four months after Sokovia_

Natasha stretched lithely, popping her joints back into place. Training the newbies was taking more time and effort than she had expected. At times, it was easy to forget that hand-to-hand combat and weapon proficiency didn't come easily to everyone.

Wanda let out a soft groan from where she lay on her back on the training mat. She had come a long way with just a few months' worth of training, Natasha admitted, but the kid still had a lot to learn before Natasha felt comfortable sending her into any sort of physical confrontation.

A series of soft rings caught her attention immediately. Strolling quickly to the hook on which her jacket hung, she fumbled in the pockets for a moment before finding the device. With a start, she realized that the phone she was holding was not ringing. That could only mean -

Turning the coat around so that the opening faced her, she hurriedly unzipped a small pocket hidden along the left sleeve's seam. The burner cell felt unnaturally heavy in her hand as she flipped it open. "Hello?" She held her breath.

"Natasha?" The woman on the other end sounded panicked; something was wrong. Natasha's heartbeat sped up as adrenaline flooded her body.

"Laura, what's going on?" She asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Have you seen Clint lately?" Natasha felt her brain go into overdrive as she began to imagine all of the possible reasons for why Clint wouldn't be at home: None of them were promising.

"No," she answered calmly. "I haven't seen him since he retired from the Avengers and left for home."

"He what?" Laura sounded incredulous.

"Retired." Natasha reiterated. "Did he not go home?"

Static flooded the speakers for a moment. "He did come home," Laura finally responded. "But he left a week later. He said that there was some Avengers' mission he had to see to."

Natasha was confident that revealing to Laura that Clint was, in fact, _not_ on an Avengers' mission would only increase Laura's fear. "Don't worry," she said, trying her best not to scare the woman on the other line, "I'm sure he's fine."

A few steady breaths reverberated through the phone. "Just bring him home, okay? Promise me, Natasha."

"I will." She closed the phone with a snap. What the hell had Clint gotten himself into now?

Natasha gritted her teeth in frustration. The Avengers hardly had the resources to track Clint down, especially if he didn't want to be found. After all, it had taken SHIELD and Coulson over two years before they had been successful in bringing Clint in. Natasha had a sneaking suspicion that SHIELD only brought Clint in because he allowed it.

Natasha could feel Wanda's concern from across the room; it wasn't every day that Natasha received frantic phone calls from her partner's wife though, and Natasha felt disinclined to share any part of their conversation until she had gathered more information.

 _Clint hasn't been himself since Loki._ She pinched her nose in frustration, inwardly bemoaning the fact that she was showing physical signs of being stressed. _His disappearance has to be about something else, something bigger. He wouldn't run unless-_

Thoughts whirling in her mind faster than her consciousness could keep up with, she punched a number into the burner phone clutched tightly in her hand.

The phone rang once.

 _Come on; pick up!_

Then twice.

 _Answer the damn phone._

Then a third time.

 _If you don't answer, I swear I'm going to start punching people._

Then a fourth-

"Hello?" An exhausted voice answered.

 _Finally._ "I know you told me this number was a "break-in-case-of-emergency" situation, but this qualifies as an emergency." She paused to suck in a breath. "We have a problem; Clint's disappeared. No one knows where he is and he has about a two month headstart." _He's going to get himself killed._

The person on the other line remained silent.

Her words poured out in a rush, "He hadn't been acting like himself before he left: He was belligerent - more so than normal -, unpredictable, violent-"

"Cut to the chase, Natasha." The voice responded, still sounding weary though now slightly more alert.

"I can't explain exactly why I think this, but I have this gut feeling that Barney is somehow involved." She pushed forward before the other person could interrupt her, "I tried talking to him before he left, but he wouldn't listen to me." _Don't be too proud to ask for help._ "If anyone could get through to him, it's you."

She paused, her breath beginning to even out. "Clint's in trouble and he needs your help, Coulson."

 **Thank you to everyone who has read the story so far!**

 **The next chapter is going to have a lot of feels, just fair warning.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you for all of the reviews! It's wonderful to know that there are people out there as obbsessed with Hawkeye as I am.**

 **No real warnings for this chapter - it's pretty tame. Next chapter will be full of warnings, however, just so you all know.**

 _Location:_

 _Five months after Sokovia_

Shadows shifted like branches blown by the wind. Coldness had settled deep in his bones hours ago, now the chilled air felt like nothing more than a slight force as it buffeted against his crouched body. At a distance a half-mile away, he could just make out the forms of two individuals. Sure, they weren't doing anything outwardly suspicious at the moment, but Clint figured it was just a matter of time before buildings started exploded, people started screaming, and civilians began dying in bloody, horrible ways.

To an outsider's perspective, the two men Clint had focused on appeared to be normal, law-abiding citizens. Their leather workmen clothing didn't scream mass-murderers, nor did their current action of leaning against a hot dog stand and speaking conversationally to the vender appear threatening in any way. But Clint knew better.

They were waiting for something, some sign to begin their reign of terror.

 _Though,_ Clint reflected, " _reign" might not be the best word choice. They would only enact a reign of terror in a less inhabited area where government soldiers and the Avengers wouldn't be sent in to eliminate the threat. Barney isn't near stupid enough to let his men break their cover by terrorizing the civilians and burning down the city. This isn't like all of those times in small towns far away from civilization…_

 _Observational skills honed through years of intense training suggest that it is highly unlikely that all of the civilians in the surrounding area will be eliminated in brutal, completely inhumane fashions._

Feeling not at all reassured that the city wasn't about to explode, Clint kept his eyes trained on the two would-be assassins. His eyes had begun burning well over an hour ago due to strain, but he refused to give them rest by closing the scope on his rifle.

Longingly, he thought of his bow stashed back in this week's safe house.

But carrying his bow around put too much of a target on his back. Sure, people tended to forget that he was - _had been_ , he reminded himself sternly - an Avenger and even went so far as to forget he existed - which was completely fine with him the majority of the time - but Stark and his goons would be keeping an eye out for a him and using his bow was like waving a giant flag, saying "Hey, here I am!"

Besides, Barney would likely find him before the Avengers did if he want walking around with his weapon of choice strapped to his back.

 _He probably already knows I'm following him._ The thought was grim and did not lower Clint's anxiety in the least bit. _Knowing him, he's just biding his time waiting for me to slip up before he pounces._

Still, Clint was also aware that Barney wouldn't intervene if Clint ended up taking out the men lounging by the hot dog cart. The rule was, after all, that if you were stupid enough to get yourself noticed, then you better be prepared to either get yourself out of the situation or die. "There's always going to be someone bigger and stronger than you," he remembered Barney telling him during one of their training sessions, "if you can't learn to use your strengths to exploit their weaknesses, then you will die, painfully." Clint had never fully decided if Barney meant the target would get the jump on him and kill him, or if Barney would kill him. He tended to lean more towards the latter.

Barney had this strange code - Clint refused to use the word "honorable" to describe - where he absolutely despised anyone else trying to kill Clint besides himself.

From his observation of other siblings, it seemed like a perfectly normal reaction.

Below, the two men Clint was intently watching began moving slowly away from the hot dog stand, blending almost seamlessly into the crowd.

 _Not seamlessly enough,_ Clint gloated to himself as he continued to track their movements. They were heading west, going deeper downtown. Moving with the flow of the crowd allowed the men to blend in more, though it seemed to Clint that they might as well have had giant, floating neon lights over their heads announcing their location.

There had been a reason why Barney always had Clint track their targets instead of entrusting the task to a more senior colleague.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, spreading golden rays across the city's landscape.

Groaning in annoyance, Clint sat up as he watched his targets head down into the subway: They weren't worth chasing now. Subways were far too unreliable to warrant the time and effort required to hunt people down in the depths of tunnels.

 _Another day, another loose end._ For two months now, he had been trailing various leads, hoping that one of them would eventually lead him closer to Barney's location.

Not that he was eagerly looking forward to seeing his brother in person again, but he knew that they would have to at least be in the same city if Clint planned on putting a few bullets in Barney's head, just to make sure he stayed dead.

After all, Clint knew from previous experience just how challenging it was to actually keep his older brother down, even with a well-placed projectile.

When Clint was fifteen, he hadn't been shooting with the intent to kill, simply to get away. His frustration level had finally reached its boiling point and he found himself unable to be a pawn in his brother's war games any longer.

When he was seventeen, he thought that the world would be a bit brighter without Barney darkening every aspect of Clint's life. The arrow that pierced the top right corner of Barney's collarbone had been fired with the deadly intent of its master, but Clint had purposefully pulled the shot up at the last second possible to avoid murdering his brother. Sentimentality gripped tightly around his heart.

Three years later when Clint was working as an assassin for the highest, somewhat-moral bidder, a twinge of conscience prevented him from releasing the taunt arrow and placing it firmly in Barney's skull. He had spent the past three years running from his past, it would not have been beneficial to alert his many enemies to his whereabouts. At least, that was the half-truth he told himself.

At twenty-three, Clint understood his intentions better. Only an uncharacteristically stern command from Coulson had stopped Clint from pulling the trigger and quite literally blowing up their entire operation. Coulson had been blissfully unaware of the fact that he saved a murderer's life that day, believing Clint's sudden bout of anger to be fueled by his disgust at the human trafficking ring they had been tasked with eliminating. In the end, Clint had decided that explanation painted him in a better life than admitting to his handler that he often fantasized about the most satisfying ways to kill his own brother.

Over the next decade, Clint had done his best to avoid any mention of his brother, knowing that even a hint of his whereabouts would likely propel him into a suicide mission. Much like the one he currently found himself in.

The entire situation was wrapped in irony: Clint could neither bring himself to kill his brother, but he also found himself unable to distance himself from the feeling that he would not be free until Barney had been dismembered and his ashes burned and buried.

Only in the past two years when Barney began surfacing again in greater frequency had Clint actually considered going against Laura's well-intentioned pleas that he refrain from going after his brother. For one reason or another, he had held himself back for twenty years.

Now, not even the sickening knowledge that by killing Barney Clint would ultimately be proving his brother's mocking accusations of his own bloodlust sound could stop him.

Nor, he realized with a twinge of shame, could Laura's arguments that he wouldn't be the same after killing Barney change his mind. As much as he professed to others and to himself that his mission was entirely due to protecting his family, Laura knew that the truth went much deeper.

His was a quest for revenge.

To prove to himself that he was in control.

To prove to Barney who the superior fighter was.

To free himself and sever all ties with his bloody past before it swallowed him whole.

It was possible that Laura would prove to be correct when she asserted that killing family members - and not by accident - was wholly different from making a living doing what needed to be done and taking down villains.

Heroes didn't kill. They found peaceful solutions where there would be minimal loss of life.

Heroes didn't hold grudges. They forgave past transgressions and looked toward the future.

Only for a brief moment had Clint considered it possible for him to be called a hero. Coulson had seen the potential in him, but that potential had been ripped away the moment he would have been proud to call "brother" bled out on the cold, metal floor.

It was hardly fair that monsters lived while a proper hero died.

Taking out Barney would be a way to balance the scales of justice, for Clint had no hope that he would make it out of this mission alive. Better, then, that monsters were put to death.

Laura would survive, he knew, even after he died. She had the Avengers to look after her now. Clint begrudgingly supposed that her wellbeing would continue and their children's futures would glow brighter once he passed. Due to a sense of honor that he only partially understood and knew he would never attain, Clint knew with absolute confidence that each his former teammates would protect his family in their own ways.

It was infinitely better this way, he acknowledged.

Sighing heavily, Clint reluctantly closed the scope on his rifle and leaned away from the edge of the building. The sun had long ago vanished into the darkening horizon.

With the rapidly approaching night came stronger gusts of wind. Though he knew them to be cold, the chill refused to seep into his bones. Any sense of warmth had long since fled from his cramped muscles, leaving his body numb.

Unclenching his hands from around the rifle, he slowly pulled the gun out of the position it had been patiently waiting in the entire day. Methodically, he disassembled the weapon and placed it securely in its case.

Years of habit had his eyes scanning the area for possible enemies before he stood from his crouch slowly. Shooting angry twinges of pain throughout his body in protest, his cramped legs straightened. Pausing for a moment, he waited as a semblance of feeling returned to his legs. Thin pins pricked at his skin, pumping blood into the lower half of his body.

Swiveling his head around to glance at every angle of the rooftop, his eyes barely caught the hazy outline of a figure cloaked in black hauling itself up over the edge of the rooftop.

Within the space of a heartbeat, the rifle case had thudded to the ground and Clint's favorite handgun was trained on the figure stepping from the shadows.

The shadowed figure's form lacked Barney's height and shape, Clint noticed with a slightly disappointed glance. _One of his goons, maybe? He should've reported back to base before trying to take me out, stupid bastard._

His index finger moved to squeeze the trigger at the same moment the figure cleared itself from the shadows.

Hands slightly raised, just enough to indicate that he had no weapon out presently, formerly-dead Agent Phil Coulson warily stepped forward. "I'd appreciate it if you refrained from shooting me," he said calmly, gesturing carefully to the forgotten gun in Clint's hand. Like it was completely normal for your ex-handler to not be buried at least six-feet under after being stabbed in the chest and declared deceased.

"What the f-" Biting his tongue to keep the rest of his thoughts from spilling out, Clint tried desperately to keep his eyes focused on the man in front of him, positive that he had been poisoned somehow and was now hallucinating.

Under the pale moonlight, Clint noticed Coulson's eyebrows arch slightly in amusement. "Since when do you not curse, Barton?"

" _Since it's apparently frowned upon to curse in the presence of small children," he wanted to respond._ The familiar tone, both kindly mocking and absolutely serious, resonated painfully in Clint's bionically-enhanced ears. Still, he kept his gun trained on the slowly approaching man, refusing to believe his eyes for once in his life.

"Am I dead?" He asked bluntly. It seemed to be the only real explanation - at least, the only explanation his mind would consider possible in that moment.

"No more dead than I am," Coulson responded in what Clint supposed was meant to be a calm manner.

"So...extremely dead?" He questioned, annoyance sparking to life within him.

"Not at all dead," Coulson insisted, his piercing gaze never leaving Clint, though he seemed to mostly ignore the gun trained on him. Intuition most likely informed him that Clint would never dare pull the trigger as long as the smallest part of him believed that Coulson was actually standing there on the rooftop.

"I know this is confusing," Coulson continued, "but I need you to put off shooting me long enough to let me explain."

"You're dead," Clint retorted. He mentally slapped himself for his dumb response, but his brain seemed incapable of grasping the seemingly obvious fact that the one man he actually trusted was somehow no longer dead.

"Not dead," Coulson responded again. To his credit, Clint supposed, it was commendable how patient this not-dead version of Coulson was. How many times had he had to have gone through this exact same situation?

...How many times-

"I'm going to kill them," he bit out angrily. The amount of venom evident in his voice surprised even himself.

Dropping his arm, Clint glared at a point behind Coulson's head. "They all knew, right?" He demanded, already feeling sure of the answer. "Fury did this. Nat knew and she never -" A flare of anger froze him in place, his mind whirling with the implications of everyone else's lies. "I'm going to kill them," he said again, this time the harsh whisper sounded much more like a bonding contract than mere words spoken in anger.

For two and a half years, SHIELD had let him wallow in a mixture of guilt and overwhelming depression. All for no reason.

They really trusted him that little.

Not even Natasha had trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

Fury not telling him hardly seemed surprising - the man lived off of secrets.

...But Coulson not reaching out, giving no sign that he had been alive all this time, was the final nail in the coffin.

Resolution flooded him as he stared numbly at his former handler, "I understand now." A wave of coldness swept over him: The ghost of a hand on his shoulder and the all-too ever present, chillingly persuasive whisper. "Barney was right. About everything - you really can't trust anyone except yourself."

Ignoring the sorrowful look crossing Coulson's features, Clint stepped backwards, inching closer to the edge of the roof. He let the rifle case lay on the stone tile of the roof - he wouldn't need it any longer.

"Don't do this, Clint." Not a command, though Clint knew he wouldn't have listened even if the words had held a measure of authority. He had never been any good at following orders.

But running from consequences? Avoiding emotional confrontation? He had always been excellent at those tactics. With all bridges burned, there was only one place he could run towards, only one person who would accept him now as the murderer he was: Hydra; Barney.

 **Please continue to review! I will try to post the next chapter shortly after Christmas.**


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: I'm back, everyone! Sorry again for the delay; as you have probably noticed, I got distracted writing a Star Wars fic.  
Lots of warnings for this chapter: brief mentions of non-con situations, PTSD, and psychological trauma.  
If any of those are triggering for you, send me a PM and I'll be more than happy to fill you in on the important plot points so that you can keep enjoying the story without having to read this chapter.  
***_

Location: New York City

 _Timeline: Five months after Sokovia (directly following the events of the last chapter.)_

Locating Barney proved easier than expected. Though, in reality, in was Barney who came to him.

Bow slung across his back, quiver full of arrows, multiple knives strapped in strategic locations on his person, Clint was prepared for battle. Just not battle with his brother.

"I have information you'll find intriguing." Clint commented, voice dull and emotionless.

The warehouse he had been holed up in for the past two days echoed his words sinisterly. His drab, industrial surroundings reminded him greatly of the training facility back in the Hydra base he had grown up in.

"What sort of information?" Barney questioned, stepping confidently from the shadows.

Clint refused to look away. "You want the Avengers, right? I'll give them to you."

 _Everyone has betrayed me, I'm simply returning the favor._

A spark of victory lit in Barney's eyes. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

Clint frowned, understanding that this was a test but having no desire to put up with Barney's mind games. "Let's just say I'm leveling the playing field."

"Fascinating." Barney responded, staring at Clint with the same interest a scientist gave to a dumb animal learning new tricks. "Of course," he continued, moving in closer to Clint's personal space, "past experiences lead me to not trust you. I'm sure you understand."

 _All too well actually, you smug bastard._

Verbally, Clint didn't respond. Flashes of memory appeared before his eyes. He had fallen into Barney's traps far too many times.

So why the hell was he willingly putting himself in this position again?

When a long, thin hunting knife appeared in Barney's hand, Clint forced himself not to react. _It's a test - don't respond. If you respond, you'll only escalate the situation._ His right hand twitched nervously as he continuing staring his brother down, silently begging himself not to launch into a defensive strike.

Barney enjoyed making Clint squirm - he took sadistic pleasure from prompting a violent reaction.

Both defiance and passivity would lead Clint into dangerous waters. It was better to simply do whatever Barney said than risk angering him in one way or another. Fewer injuries occured that way.

"Tell me," Barney continued in that condescending, mocking, low tone that he reserved specially for Clint, "has SHIELD managed to undo all the effort I put into training you properly, or are you still a good, little soldier?"

Clint's lips curled slightly in a snarl before he could smooth his features. Barney noticed. _I'm not your pet, if that's what you're asking. Except…_

Except he was. He always had been no matter how hard he fought to deny that fact. Barney was his creator and, even now, Clint found himself struggling to defy him in any significant manner.

He stayed silent. But that silence spoke volumes.

A sick grin spread across Barney's face. "Good."

Clint forced himself not to reflexively try and block the attack as Barney struck with all the suddenness of a snake. The knife cut deeply into his left forearm, leaving a wide section of skin weeping with blood.

Nor did he react as Barney shoved him forcefully against the nearest metal column, the tip of a knife biting into his left side where a thick, knotted scar told stories of how many times Barney had stabbed him in the exact same location.

Every time he since he had first run away, Barney sunk the same knife into his flesh just centimeters from his spleen, calling back memories of where Clint had first been injured as he escaped Hydra initially. He doubted this time would be any different.

With Barney pressed so closely against him, Clint itched to reach for a knife of his own and plunge it over and over again into his brother's body. But he knew he would be bleeding out before the knife was half-drawn.

Still, Barney wouldn't kill him. He hoped.

"Does our deal still hold?" Clint asked, ignoring his instincts.

"The one where I don't kill you?" Barney replied, appearing contemplative, "That depends."

"Depends on what?" Clint questioned, dreading the answer.

"On what you decide."

Clint waited impatiently for Barney to expound, knowing his brother would be unable to resist. "Your options are the same they've always been, in addition to the consequences for betraying me again, that is."

Clint gritted his teeth, "Meaning I do everything you tell me, without question or comment, and I get to live? Or I resist, tell you to fuck off, and I end up being tortured for months on end in whatever sick ways your twisted mind concocts?"

"Precisely," Barney responded, adding just enough pressure to the knife so that it slowly punctured the cloth of Clint's black t-shirt, scraping slightly at his scar.

Self-preservation had always been Clint's main goal in life, until he had met Laura, that is. Afterwards, everything he did, every choice he made, he did with the sole purpose of protecting her and keeping her as far away as possible from his maniac brother.

It made his decision agonizingly simple.

"Whatever you say goes." His tone was flat, betraying none of the dread coiling in his gut.

He would do whatever was necessary to protect his family. Even if it meant betraying every other person who had ever been foolish enough to trust him.

He was a traitor to absolutely every oath he had ever taken. Except the oath he had made to his wife, and he had zero intention of ever breaking that promise.

Everyone else was expendable.

Barney watched him carefully, clearly expecting Clint's willing betrayal of his allies to be some sort of trap.

"I remember how this goes - do you?" Barney asked, his tone sickeningly full of gloating.

Clint did remember. All too well.

Manipulation was something Barney was extremely skilled at. No tactic was too extreme. Over the years, he had tested all manner of manipulation techniques out on Clint to see which ones worked best.

Through trial and error, Barney knew exactly which techniques were required in differing circumstances to get Clint to follow orders. It was all about applying the right amount of pressure at the right time. Or some such shit.

The exact instant the knife sliced through Clint's flesh, cutting easily through his thick muscle, Barney's lips collided with his, sealing their deal.

Manipulation. Domination. It all meant the same thing to Barney.

Fighting the disgust rising within him, Clint focused on the sharp pain in his side.

He had to think of something else. _Anything_ else.

His brain refused to work properly, shutting down due to the shock of going through this all over again.

 _Those bastards in Psych would have a field day with this._

He still clearly remembered the day he had stumbled into Coulson's office just after a meeting with Psych a few years after he had joined SHIELD, only then fully understanding the emotional hell his brother had put him through growing up. The implications of what his brother had done had threatened to destroy any shred of sanity he possessed. If it hadn't been for Coulson, he would never have recovered.

By anyone else's estimation, he should have been forced to undergo severe therapy and be benched from missions until he was cleared from all signs of PTSD. But Coulson, knowing therapy likely wouldn't help Clint in the least, had kept his mouth shut about the entire situation once he had made Clint swear to come to him when the truth of his past cut too deeply.

He had spent many more nights on the couch in Coulson's office after that conversation: the proximity to someone he trusted with his life helping to keep the demons at bay.

The only other person he had ever told was Laura - it had been impossible to conceal the dark truths of his nightmares from her. Natasha didn't have a clue.

After only a few seconds, though each second that passed was far too long in Clint's estimation, Barney finally pulled back from the illicit kiss, harshly yanking the blade from Clint's side as he backed a few inches away.

Reflexively, Clint's hand moved to cover the gushing wound. Too quickly, his hand was covered in thick, warm blood. "I thought you weren't trying to kill me," he growled, glaring up at his brother even as he doubled over in pain. Specks of black floated in front of his eyes.

"The poison won't kill you," Barney responded, a note of interest in his voice as he watched Clint's suffering. "But I did warn you there would be repercussions for your betrayal."  
***

 _Location: SHIELD HQ_

 _Timeline: Fourteen Years Prior_

The thick, wooden door thudded shut behind him. Clint barely registered the sound, staring at the office in front of him without seeing his present surroundings.

He wasn't entirely certain how he had made it all the way from the Psych offices on the third floor to Coulson's office on the twelfth floor without murdering anyone.

"Did you need something, Agent Barton?" Coulson's stoic voice pulled him slightly back to reality and Clint blinked, looking up at his handler even as his head spun wildly.

"I-" he hesitated, trying desperately to come up with an excuse for his uninvited presence. "Can I crash in here for a bit?" He murmured, voice sounding distant even to his ears.

As soon as Clint's eyes shifted across his handler's face, looking for a sign of approval, Coulson's expression switched from the carefully blank stare he was known for, to one of forced calm. "You just came from Psych." he noted, steadily watching Clint.

Clint nodded, not trusting his voice.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be close to falling apart. He was stronger than this.

"Sit down," Coulson commanded, gesturing to his couch.

Shaking uncharacteristically, Clint did as he was ordered. Another sign to his handler that something was amiss.

Coulson didn't ask any questions, instead returning to his paperwork once he saw that Clint had sat down and was struggling to regain control of his breathing.

Clint was infinitely grateful.

For a few moments, the only sounds in the room were the gentle ticking of the wall clock, the constant hum of the air-conditioner unit, and the almost-silent sound Coulson's pen made as it danced across the pages.

Clint focused on his breathing, knowing that if he could just control his breathing, then his hands would stop trembling.

"What did Psych ask you about?" Coulson asked in a carefully guarded tone, not glancing up from his work.

Clint swallowed, again wondering why he had come here. He had known Coulson would ask questions. But he hadn't had anywhere else to go.

He knew that admitting what was on his mind to his handler was the same as admitting it to the stone-faced bastards in Psych - SHIELD would likely let him go either way.

But, unlike the psychologists, Coulson was unlikely to judge him for his temporary weakness.

"My brother." he whispered, tasting the bitterness of his tongue as he said the words.

Coulson didn't respond, but Clint knew he remembered their conversation from two years ago after Clint's panic attack in the conference room. Coulson had let him off relatively scot-free that time, not asking too many personal, probing questions.

Clint knew this time would be different the moment his handler lowered his pen and turned his full attention to him. "What about your brother? That he tried to kill you?"

Clint nodded - this part was somewhat easier to talk about. After all, Barney trying to kill him was nothing new.

"Did you tell them what they wanted to know?"

"About the carnival, yeah." Coulson frowned slightly, though he didn't call Clint out on the lie.

His handler sighed, leaning back in his chair to get a better view of Clint's nervous state. "What did they try to dredge up this time?"

"I -" Clint fumbled with the words, turning his gaze away in shame. "Nothing really. It just...just hit me."

"What did?"

Clint looked down at his twitching hands, wondering if they would ever stop shaking. "Just - something about my brother. Something I never realized."

"Did you tell them?" Coulson inquired, voice returning to its natural, stoic tone.

"No." Clint responded, voice low. "I did what I always do."

"Steered them away from the actual issue at hand with obscure comments designed specifically to frustrate them?" Coulson guessed, the question more rhetorical than anything else. He knew how much Clint hated the psychologists and how he loved to annoy them into leaving him alone.

"Yeah."

"Well," Coulson said, crossing his arms, "I guess you'll just have to tell me then."

Clint fidgeted. He had no idea how to put any of this into words.

How did he admit to his ignorance without giving away the dark secrets in his past that would get him imprisoned in a secure SHIELD facility where he would spend the rest of his life being mercilessly tortured and interrogated?

Coulson already knew the carnival was a lie, though he had no idea what Clint was actually hiding. Perhaps he could weave this truth in with that lie, trusting that Coulson wouldn't question it?

"In the carnival," Coulson's eyebrow rose at the word, causing Clint to stumble over his words, the lie scattering from his thoughts.

"Whatever it is you need to say," Coulson prodded, "just say it. The longer you agonize over the words, the harder it'll be to get out."

 _It's just like firing an arrow. Don't think, just do._

"Barney's a fucking bastard who used to rape me to assert his control."

To his credit, Coulson covered his surprise at Clint's blunt reveal well. In fact, he almost looked bored, though Clint knew his handler was simply processing the new information.

"And you had blocked it out?"

"No," Clint responded, feeling a bit more confident now that the worst truth was laid out, "I just never connected what he used to do to me with sexual assault. Never really thought about it."

Coulson nodded thoughtfully, noting with interest how Clint's hands had stilled. "Will this revelation affect your ability to do your job?"

Clint frowned, "No. Why would it?"

The hint of a smile pulled at his handler's lips at the question. "Just checking, Agent Barton."

"The two things aren't even related," Clint insisted, feeling extremely confused.

"No," Coulson responded, still appearing amused, "I don't suppose they are. Not to you."

 _What is that even supposed to mean?_

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Coulson's expression turned neutral again. "Was there anything else you needed to discuss, Agent?"

Clint shook his head, standing up straight. "Are you going to report me?"

The unasked question of whether he was going to be committed to therapy hung in the air.

"At this time," Coulson responded slowly, glancing at Clint's now composed posture, "I don't feel any further action needs to be taken."

Counting himself lucky and considering those words to be a dismissal, Clint made his way over to the door, suddenly feeling much more in the mood to go fire a few dozen arrows into targets. Imagining the targets were his brother was certainly going to cathartic.

"However," Coulson spoke again as Clint's hand wrapped around the door handle, "I expect you to come to me if this ever does become an issue."

"Yes, sir." Clint responded automatically - surprised to find that he actually would, should the need arise.  
***

 _Location: Avengers HQ_

 _Timeline: Present Day_

"Hold on a second," Tony Stark interrupted, his tone disbelieving, "you've been alive all this time?"

Phil Coulson nodded, expression carefully blank as he took in the surprised looks of the Avengers. All except Natasha, who had known from the very beginning. "Director Fury decided it would be best to keep the information under wraps - he didn't want anything to distract you from becoming a team. I agreed," he continued, turning his gaze to Natasha who leaned against the room's counter, "on the condition that Agents Romanoff and Barton be informed of my recovery. Considering recent events, however, it's clear that only half of my request was actually completed."

"You knew about this?" Stark demanded, turning on Natasha. She shrugged in response.

"If I'm being completely honest," Coulson stated, "I'm rather disappointed. Much of this could have been avoided if my request had been granted. As it is," he sighed, hating the words, "we have all managed to lose Barton's trust, and that is a very dangerous position to be in."

"Dangerous?" Steve inquired, recovering first from the shock at seeing Coulson alive. "You think Clint would turn on us?"

"He already tried to kill me," Stark said, pointing to the scar on his left shoulder.

"He didn't try to kill you," Natasha insisted, moving closer to the group's position in the living room.

Bruce looked up from his seat on the couch, "Would he though, turn on us?"

Phil didn't hesitate, though he desperately wished he could, "Yes."

Again, everyone in the room looked shocked, besides Natasha.

Over the din of voices clamoring to be heard, Phil spoke again, trying to offer an explanation. A defense. "Right now, Clint feels threatened, cornered. And when he's cornered, he always fights his way out."

"And we're standing in the way." Natasha added.

"So what is he going to do," Tony asked, gesturing to each person in the room in turn, "try to take us all out? There's no way birdbrain would be able to do that."

"He could," Phil said, voice hard and low, his tone hostile, "if he wanted to." Turning to stare directly at Stark, he warned, "Don't underestimate him. It could very well be the last mistake you make."

Tony laughed, "Okay, but seriously, the guy uses archaic weaponry. Pretty sure even my cleaning robots could take him down."

"Tony," Steve spoke up, "he knows absolutely everything about us. That's what he does," he turned to Phil who nodded in confirmation. "He's been watching each and every one of us for years, noting all of our strengths, all of our weaknesses. He knows exactly how to make us hurt."

"And since we're now his enemies," Natasha said, her calm voice hiding every trace of sadness threatening to spill out, "he will use all of that intel to make our lives hell."

"Unless," Coulson added, turning to face each of the remaining Avengers, "we prove to him that he can trust us more than he can trust the people he's working with now."

"He's working with someone?" Bruce asked, interested, "Who?"

For the first time, Coulson paused. _I'm sorry, Clint._ He thought regretfully. _You didn't leave me any choice._ "His brother."

"His brother?" Tony asked, aghast. "What the hell does his brother do?"

"He's," Natasha paused, glancing carefully at Phil, weighing the truth of his words, "he's the person Clint hates most in the world - they've tried to kill each other a few times."

Before anyone else could interject, Phil dropped the most crucial piece of information in front of them. "He's also Hydra."

Everyone in the room froze, taking in the information slowly.

"Barney's Hydra?" Natasha questioned, unable to fully disguise the surprise in her voice.

"Yes." Phil answered, briefly pausing before continuing, "Clint used to be, as well."

For a few moments, there was nothing except stunned silence.

"Hydra?" Steve frowned, "Clint was Hydra?"

"When? How? What?" Tony sputtered.

Natasha simply stared at him, trying to comprehend.

Folding his arms behind his back, Phil turned to stare out the window. "I didn't put it together until after SHIELD fell and Hydra was revealed," he admitted, feeling slightly guilty for revealing any personal details about Clint's life, though knowing the man had given him no other option.

The team needed to know what, exactly, they were facing. "I always knew he was hiding something about his past, though I never guessed precisely what that was - all SHIELD agents have secrets, after all. But there were certain inconsistencies in the stories he used to tell me that always nagged at me.

"For instance," he continued, "I'm sure you all know how he grew up in a carnival with his brother after his parents died in a house fire." Everyone nodded. "I never entirely bought that story," Phil confessed, "something about it always struck me as odd. Not implausible, to be sure - just odd. After Hydra came out of the shadows, it took me awhile to put the pieces together."

"The circus," Natasha interrupted, "that was a code name, wasn't it?"

Coulson nodded. "It's the exact sort of thing Hydra would do to cover their tracks. After all, it wouldn't do to have people knowing that there was a deeper conspiracy going on."

"Wait," Stark asked, incredulous, "are you saying that Hydra actually does have a secret sect of assassins?"

"Yes, that is precisely what I'm saying."

"Holy shit," Tony muttered, "no wonder he was spooked when we were discussing that possibility."

"You said Clint used to be Hydra," Steve interjected, "so he isn't anymore?"

Phil sighed, "He wasn't, for a time. But I fear we just drove him right back to his roots."

"Unless we get him to trust us again, like you said," Bruce suggested, always the optimist.

"But how do we get him to trust us?" Steve asked.

" _We_ don't." Natasha answered, crossing her arms and staring knowingly at her former handler. "He trusted that Phil might put all of this together at some point, maybe he even wanted him to since he apparently dropped hints over the years."

"He's not listening to me," Coulson admitted.

"Then you make him listen to you," Natasha insisted. "He trusts you more than anyone else in the world, with the exception of Laura. And" she glared at Tony as he opened his mouth, "we are _not_ dragging her into this. I promised her I would bring him home safely and I'll be damned if I don't keep that promise."  
***

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and followed. I love reading all of your supportive comments: Please keep them coming as I enjoy hearing your thoughts._


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